


pretty chapped lips

by wetshoes



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Abuse, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - High School, ITS REALLY BAD AT THE START BUT IT DOES ACTUALLY GET BETTER OKAY, Lashton - Freeform, M/M, Minor Calum Hood/Ashton Irwin, Minor Luke Hemmings/Ashton Irwin, Short Chapters, Substance Abuse, Underage Drinking, calum is nineteen, highschool!au, i guess??, it was in the past okay, its kind of minor but still, its rly weird okay just go with it, jack barakat / alex gaskarth, like many, long fic, malum, many trigger warnings, michael is sixteen, non-con, slightly depending, theres so many tags oh my god i didnt think this through, theres so many things to be tagged that i cant be bothered tagging, triggering content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-05-05 17:30:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 59
Words: 38,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5384270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wetshoes/pseuds/wetshoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Once upon a time, I met a boy who would smoke more than he'd weigh."<br/>in which michael is a quiet sixteen year old who ghosts through life without really living at all: that is, before he finds himself infatuated with a boy who flirts with death like life is a game.</p><p>(containing tiggering content - do not read if you are easily triggered. told from michaels pov, also found on wattpad.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 0.0

Once upon a time, I met a boy who would smoke more than he'd weigh. His fingers were careless as they curled around one of the cigarettes that I had never seen him without; yet somehow, I knew he could never part with them despite how he seemed not to care. His eyes were dark, they were deep but they were dead, leading to nothing at all. I'd watch him some days from the corner of my eyes, noticing how he would never look my way. His skin was tanned but sickly pale, it scared me how I could see his bones. But then one day, he did in fact look my way and I asked him what was wrong.  

He paused for a moment, but then his pretty chapped lips curved into a smile that held no humour nor love. His hair was stringy, greasy as it fell into his eyes while the cigarette left his lips. “What's wrong with me?” He echoed before his bony shoulders shrugged. “Everything, or nothing at all maybe.”  

And he stopped with that. But then I swear that his eyes turned cold as he stared down at the embers of his burning cigarette. I swear I saw his lips part, and I swear I heard him utter the words: but then again, maybe I didn't see anything at all.  

_“I want to die, but I want to live. Can that be counted as wrong?”_


	2. ( ♡ )

_**"We are all alone, trapped in these bodies and our own minds, and whatever company we have in this life is only fleeting and superficial."** _

_**\- Jennifer Niven.** _


	3. 0.1

I was sixteen when I first saw him.

My sleeves were long, hiding hands that I couldn't bare to look at and arms that made me ill to see. I stood outside the home I once knew, tugging on the frayed sleeves ends as I watched the world fly by. Cars whizzed along the quiet road, bathed in the florescent yellow glow of the street lights that tempted me near. I swore they whispered to me, fingers gesturing me close, begging, pleading with me, _'oh dear, would you stand before the head lights and make such a pretty mess?'._  

I wanted to rush out, I wanted to close my eyes and follow the voices that sang so sweetly in my mind: but never did I move. I sat on the steps of the old house, cold stone cutting into torn jeans and icy wind tearing at my skin. I wished to step forward, to let my bare feet travel along the cold grass that lay in patches on my front lawn. I wished to dart out into the lampposts, to find my way into the light that pooled against cold tarmac. But I didn't move, or perhaps I would, if he hadn't walked that same way.  

He was still, like a deer caught in the head lights across the way. The wind picked up his hair, short and dark, it flew in his eyes like my own did. He stood there, just across the road with his eyes closed and a smile tugged at the end of his full lips. I swore I saw them move, I swore I saw those pretty chapped lips form words as he drifted into the middle of the road while I watched, frozen, awaiting his next move.

I wanted to tell him to move, I wanted to scream at him that he was caught in the head lights, I wanted to get up and shove him from the hurtling metal that would have hit him square in the chest.

But I didn't move.  

Nor did he.  

But the car swerved, then the breaks screamed as the tires screeched. My wide eyes watched the dark haired boy, standing like a ghost in the middle of the road while the car swerved out of control, crashing to the lamppost that's light they bathed in.  

Then the lights went out.  

Then darkness came.  

But in my mind, as screams came and lights flickered on in the houses along the street: I saw his lips move, eyes closed with a sense of peace flowing across the way to kiss my skin like it dowsed his.  

_“Goodbye.”_


	4. 0.2

I thought I had dreamed him, honest I had. I told my father the next day about the vision of a boy I saw across the way. I tried to tell my father how he stepped out before the head lights like there was nothing in his way, how his eyes were closed and he looked so at peace. But he rolled his eyes and stared at me hard, he told me to get my head out from those clouds. I swear I tried, I told myself I never saw the boy. I tried to convince myself it was just my imagination, that I never saw him at all as I walked past the dented lamppost and skid marks that screamed at me how real he was.  

When I was him again, he stood in the very same place at three thirty am. I sat with my legs crossed, long sleeves curled around my unfortunate arms as I watched the quiet road like every night. I swore once again, I promise I heard it whisper to me to come near. I don't know how I refused it as it sang in my ear, gentle touches to my skin as it tempted me, whispering to to me to _'just come here'._

I saw him again, like a vision in white yet his tanned skin was clad only in black. The jeans he wore clung to his fragile frame and the shirt that cut off at his arms hung a little to loose, flowing in the cold nights wind. I watched him, afraid to look away, afraid to even blink encase he may disappear again, vanishing from my vision like sand through my fingers. I watched as he moved like a ghost, as if his feet did not even grace the ground as he moved towards the centre of the road once again.  

I watched him as he waited. I watched him as he stood. I watched him with his face upturned to the sky, but eyes closed, not daring to stare up into the star filled night.  

Seconds slipped by as minutes began to collect, but my eyes never left him. He was like a ghost, standing with his face upturned to the moons light. Drastic shadows clung to his features, cheekbones so sharp I was tempted to reach out, to run my fingers along them to see the little red lines that would be left in their wake. His body seemed to sway with every breath, though his lips turned up in a smile as his hands seemed to raise, fingers splayed as his arms rose to the air, like a bird in flight. It felt _ethereal_ and _unreal_ , how he seemed to be _flying_ yet not moving, _burning_ through time but stuck in it like it were glue.  

And there he stood, and I didn't dare look away.  

But then his arms dropped, and his hands dug into dark pockets while the smile fell from his chapped lips as easily as a feather fluttering through the air at the slightest nudge of the wind. His eyes fluttered open, lips parted as he looked away from the moons light to the dark road around him and everything suddenly felt _cold_ and _lonely_. Then, once again, I thought I heard him speak. But he turned his back to me where I sat on the cold front steps, and for a moment: I looked away.  

Then, he was gone, like a ghost sinking into the stone.  

_“Maybe not tonight.”_


	5. 0.3

It became something of a routine after that point. Night after night I found myself sitting on the front step, words so _harsh_ and _cutting_ still clung to the air with the same tight grip as my arms that pulled my knees to my chest. For hours there I would sit, for hours tear tracks kissed my cheeks and for hours I would wait for him to appear.  

Every night he would appear, was different from the last.  

Sometimes he seemed to float, his hands I the air and a smile gracing his torn lips, he seemed to be in a dream and I swore he was dancing. Though the road was silent, when he wondered by, feet skimming the ground it was like music clung to his clothes that flowed in the cold nights wind. His lips moved, his eyelashes fluttered and his feet ghosted along the street like a dream. It's like you taste the _melody_ andthe _emotion_ , though there was no sound to be heard beyond the _scratch_ and _scrape_ of his feet against the tarmac of the quite road.  

But some nights he was different. It was like a dark cloud hung over him as it would to a cartoon while his feet trailed along the ground, like a ball and chain should be found at his ankles. The cigarette pressed between his lips seemed too harsh, too visible as pale white and rough red against his tanned skin. It was angry and rough, though only just a pin prick of light in the dark. His hands dug into his pockets, arms bound to his sides, they were no longer wings to fly.  

But some nights, he didn't come at all.    

Some nights his feet didn't kiss the ground and his shadow didn't creep along in his wake. Those nights I swore I saw him, I'd close my eyes for a second too long and when I opened them again I swore I saw the cigarette stubs he left like bread crumbs for someone braver than I to follow.  

Those nights were the worst as I battled with my mind until the sun began to rise, forcing the moon away from the brightening sky. I would never move, I'd sit for hours in hopes his shadowy figure would appear in the tired dawns light. Id refuse to sleep; too tired to move indoors, my muscles feeling as if they were made of stone from hours of not moving.  

Sometimes I would drift. I would slip into something of slumber with my heavy eyes closed, only to snap open at the realisation and the first car horn blaring. I knew it was idiotic to wait for a boy I wasn't even sure was really there to begin with. I didn't know his name, I didn't know him at all yet id sit there for hours on end, waiting for him like a wife would as she awaits for her husbands return from war. But in reality, he didnt even know that I existed or maybe, he was the one who didnt exist and was nothing more than a phantom of my lonesome imagination.  

_"Come back."_


	6. 0.4

The first time I ever saw him in the light of day, was months after he began haunting my dreams.  

I was in school, my head in my arms and my eyes to the window. My teachers words were like smoke, but not the compelling kind that would flow past the those pretty chapped lips that lingered in my mind. No, her words flowed away with the wind, _swirling_ and _drifting_ in the air to the point to listen was more than just a simple task. My eyes gazed out the window, sitting at the back of the class so no one would call upon my miserable name as I tried to lose myself in a daydream where the vision that keeps on appearing in shadowed streets is more than just a dream.  

As my eyes bore out the window, watching as the heat rolled in the air like waves, my eyes stumbled across something I never thought I'd see. The figure standing just outside the window I stare out of so obviously had a cigarette pressed between his lips, torn jeans still not quite as tight as they look that they should be and dead eyes closed with his face upturned to the sunlight.  

I had to close my eyes. I screwed them shut tight to try and push the image from my mind that couldn't possibly be reality. I saw stars dancing in my vision and splashes of colour that made my mind ache. But when I opened them again, for the first time: there he still stood.  

Reality hit me like a slap to the face as I watched him from where I sat, my teachers words not even getting close enough to enter one ear and flow out the other. I wasn't sure what I was thinking; I didn't know what to think. The boy I saw as a dream was now standing in day light, angelic features finally clear without the drastic shadows the street lights gave.  

"Mister Clifford, are you quite comfortable there?"  

At my teachers words my head snapped towards the front beyond my control. The laughter of the class around me made my cheeks flare with colour and the stutter of a response I gave only made it worse. Mortified was the only word I could muster in my mind to explain the feeling as my teacher scolded me for daydreaming once again.  

"You need to pay attention," she would tell me with her lips pursed tight in a stern red line, "you'll never get anywhere in life with an attitude like that."  

I wanted to tell her I didn't care though god knows I did. I wanted to tell her that her class would get me nowhere though I know it probably will. Most of all I wanted to ignore her, to blatantly turn my head and look out the window once again to see the heat rolling like lapping waves and the tanned boys cigarette burning away.  

But I did none of those things. With a simple nod my eyes downcast, I stared at such unfortunate arms covered by my greying school shirt and like a child who's father just scolded him again and i let the words fall from my lips I find myself saying time and time again.  

_"I'm sorry."_


	7. 0.5

I knew after that day that he wasn't a dream. At least, I believed him not to be.

I didn't tell my father I saw the boy time and time again as I knew the words he'd speak. "I know you're a faggot, but now you're mental too? You're some kind of failure, but no wonder, you are your mothers son."

My father was a tough man, maybe we could boarder it upon cruel. I was his punching bag, my mother just a fool. I loved her with all my heart, but for him there was none to give. After all, why give a part of my heart to a man who'd only give me a bloody lip in return.  

My life was a wreak, or maybe it was fine. In my eyes being a verbal punching bag was a fate I feel no one should have, but maybe I have it easy and im taking for granted the things that I am luck enough to have.  

But on occasion, I could forget about my my life. I could forget about the sadness, forget about the rage. Forget about the _push_ and _pull_ of negativity that surrounds my life like a thick ash cloud. Because, on those so very few occasions, a pair of pretty chapped lips and dull dark eyes would invade my mind.

When I saw him it was like i was someone else. Like i wasn't a sixteen year old hiding a black eye behind his mothers make up and flinching at his fathers words. It was like I wasn't even there at all in those few moments where I could watch him. He was like some rare beauty, an animal on the verge of extinction and my eyes were one of the few pairs blessed to see.  

But sadly, just as you would to those rare beauties, I could ever approach. I would watch him from afar, my face hidden in the shadows and my knees pulled to my chest as I watch him dancing in the moonlight.  

Whenever his fingers fluttered through the air as his feet carried him along the cracked tarmac with that smile like ecstasy on his lips, I would hide. I wanted to get closer, to not have to strain my eyes in the dim light to see the way his lips curved and how they parted with each breath and word. I could see each _sigh_ and _hum_ , almost fooling myself into knowing the sound that I could barely hear. But I knew I couldn't walk closer, I couldn't go anywhere near him encase my presents became known. Though to him I have never spoken a word, and I have never seen anyone else for that matter: I feared I knew his reaction. I feared the reality of the way his hands were fall to his sides and the corners of his lips would drop. And that was something I could not risk.  

But it was so hard to hide. It was so hard to stick to the shadows whenever I watched him walk by with that dark cloud covering him as it does far too often. I wanted nothing more than to walk out to him, reach out and pluck the cigarette from his lips that curled around it as if it belonged there; as if it didn't ruining the soft tones of his beauty, the ethereal feeling that clung to his body with its harsh reality. It made my stomach tie itself into knots the way he would stand in the middle of the road, hands by his sides as he waited for something to come to give him peace of mind in such a way I could not seem to understand no matter how many sleepless nights I spent asking myself how and why. 

But I stuck to the shadows for more reasons than one as I watched him move through life, brushing so close to death as my fathers words would ring in my ears.  

_"I wish you had never been born."_


	8. 0.6

Every Tuesday and Thursday at two thirty pm I would see him like clock work again and again.  

After the fourth day I started _looking_ out for him, _waiting_ for him, _expecting_ him to be there with that cigarette dangling between his lips and his face upturned to the sky as smoke fluttered into the air, clouding his beautiful face. And he was always there. I didn't know why, I couldn't question it if I tried, because every time I saw him beyond the classroom walls that cage me in like an animal, my mouth would run dry and my eyes glaze over with I watch him ghost by: completely compelled, _intoxicated_ by a boy I didn't know.  

It wasn't until the sixth day I knew why he would come time and time again.  

He was waiting. Waiting for the boy that would look both ways before sprinting out the school doors to meet him by the old oak tree. Waiting for the boy that would wrap his arms tight around the tanned boys neck who lifted him off his feet. Waiting for the boy who would pull the cigarette from his lips and press his own where it used to be.  

His name was Ashton Irwin and he was just a two years older than me.  

Ashton Irwin was eighteen with _oh so bright_ green eyes and dimples pressed so deep into his cheeks, and smile so wide it hurt me to see. He giggled whenever he found something funny and came from a family with far too much money. He was happy go lucky and he smiled at everyone he saw. He was kind, he was sweet, and he was everything I could never be.  

My best friend was in love with him, or at least that's what he said he was to me. I didn't have friends, but I sat next to the blonde haired boy with _oh so bright_ blue eyes that came from an easy life every day at lunch. He'd babble about how perfect the older boy was, he'd say he's in love yet I didn't understand how he could love a boy that he had never spoken to before.  

As the boy with his shiny blue eyes that created a filtered of a naïve view on life would ramble about the beautiful boy with his pretty green eyes as I nodded my head instead of asking why. Images played in my mind like a child would to knives. They would only hurt me and i knew it, though still with them id play.

Id watch again  and again how their lips would connect. Id watch again and again how their hands would roam like they knew exactly where to go. Id watch again and again how teeth would tug at lower lips and hands would slip under white buttoned shirts and black singlets in the shade of the old oak tree.  

"Are you listening?" Id hear him say, curious blue eyes peering into mine which had lost their childish light. "Are you okay, Michael? You seem really out of it lately."  

As his words would meet my ears so many replies became clear. I could tell him I wasn't alright. I could tell him im afraid to close my eyes every night encase drunken curses became sober punches. I could tell him I've become enchanted by a boy who creeps through my mind night and day. I could tell him that it's been too long since I felt like I could _breathe_ and _laugh_ without an ache in my chest and lies on my lips. I could tell him how my mind is a mess and all I can think of is dark, dead eyed and cigarettes between chapped lips.  

But id just shake my head and flash a grin that I had been perfecting, reading off im okay when I've been thinking about _dying_ all day.  

_"I'm fine."_


	9. 0.7

Infatuation, that's what it was: I was _infatuated_.  

I was infatuated with a boy who danced in the middle of the road at midnight. Infatuated with the boy that glided through life like a ghost. Infatuated with a boy that played with death like a child would with a toy. I was infatuated with someone I did not know, yet I knew more about than I could say I knew of my own family.  

I knew the way he would move when he was elated, high off _life_ or high off the _drugs_ that coursed through his veins, I had no idea. I knew the way his lips would _curve_ and his _brows_ would furrow whenever anger covered him like smog to a city. I knew how he seemed to battled with himself as he wondered down lonely streets in the middle of the night, those nights he didn't dance, but those nights he didn't scream for death as he sat somewhere on the edge of falling out of love or into it with life itself.  

I knew it would get me nowhere. That pinning, _longing_ and _dreaming_ about tanned skin and smoke tumbling past full lips was doing nothing more than poisoning my mind. Logically, I knew I was setting myself up for more than trouble, setting myself up for a kind of heartbreak I couldn't give a name to until it hit me like the cars that would dodge him on those dark nights.  

When I close my eyes I hear his words. I hear his voice, _speaking_ singing _screaming_. I hear him like I can hear the rush of blood to my head and the pounding of my heart against my chest whenever he would appear.  

As I stumble through my day, lips moving to say _im okay_ while eyes screaming _I don't think I can survive another day_ I hear his voice like a sirens song in my mind. I hear him as he spoke to himself nights before with a bitter laugh while he cursed about what people believe to be God. Id hear the sigh in his voice as it raised to to sing so sweetly with its rough edge. But id hear his screams, gut wrenching, shrill _screams_.  

"Hit me! Just fucking hit me already! I can't fucking live like this anymore-! Don't you get it? I want to **die!”**

His voice attacked my mind. With claws it would cling onto my subconscious, refusing to let go as it ran around in my mind time and time again. I hear the way his voice would crack whenever he screamed of his wish for death, how it would waver and a sob would break free. I'd hear the _crack_ of his knees colliding with the ground and the gasp of a breath that tore though his parted lips. I could hear his cries playing through my mind like a broken record, the _gasps_ of breath tumbling past torn red lips and his thickening throat.  

One night I couldn't stand it. I stood there, watching as he tore himself apart in the middle of the road. I saw the tears that trailed down his cheeks like pale streaks of moonlight. I hear him as he screamed, _screeching_ profanities to nothing more than a deserted road as he fell to the ground. I watched as his hands curled in his hair, I watched as he pulled at the ends and his voice became horse from the sobs that tore through his fragile chest. I couldnt stand it, the sound was like nails on a chalk board and the sight made my head spin as my heart hammered against my chest.  _I couldn't stand it._

So I went to him.  

But, the closer I got, my fears made themselves know. When my bare feet hit the patchy grass wet with morning dew, I knew that I needed to turn back. As my body traveled forward my mind screamed for me to walk away. And as my feet came in contact with the cold sidewalk, I realised what I had done when his sobs stopped crashing into me like waves to the shore.  

So, I turned back. I spun around and my bare feet smacked against the ground as I ran for the door. My heart hammered in my chest as if to say what a foolish move it was as the blood rushed to my head like water suddenly reaching the boil as the words ran through my mind again and again like a never ending loop.  

_"You're a coward."_


	10. 0.8

Ever since then, things changed. I didn't wait for him every night; though, as I did stare out my window for hours on end, I had hopes his shadow may creep by. Every Tuesday and Thursday I still stared out the window, but I saw him less and less often than before.  

Part of me knew it was for the best if he were to disappear from my life. Sleepless nights would be better wasted on _self-loathing_ , ton thoughts that circle my mind like water to the drain as I fall into the gutter: rather than following around someone who remains nameless. Afternoons in English class would be better spent staring down at my hands (rough fingertips, little scars that I can't remember picking glass from weeks to months ago) because my father ruined my copy of _The Great Gatsby_ rather than watching the boy on the other side of the window.

Most of all, my mind would be better off not running in continuous loops to remember I face I should never have noticed to begin with.  

But the rest of my mind knew that at this point, he was quite possibly one of the few things keeping me from feeling so _numb_.  

Id sit with my best friend as he'd ramble about the oh so bright green eyed boy two years above and ask myself if that's what I would be like. If I just made a move to speak instead of _listen_ , to _act_ instead of _watch_ , perhaps I could share with him the tale of the boy with the pretty chapped lips that's cigarette smoke clouds my mind. But I knew I wouldn't speak of him. I did not want to become like one of those teenage girls that talk about a crush and obsess over them like they're an object of lust. With their _oh my god's_ , and I _think it's love's_. I could never do that. But maybe that was just because i wanted to keep him for _myself_.  

So, perhaps I lied. Because, maybe I still looked. I did not spend hours sitting on the front step where I couldn't see my hand before my very own eyes -but, I couldn't help the way my eyes would flicker to the window in search of his shadowy figure in the night as I hid away in my bedroom. And maybe even though I did not stare out the window of my classroom in search of him, I still noticed his fingers running through his hair out of the corner of my tired eyes.  

Maybe it was because I was trying not to look. Maybe it was because i made the point to keep my eyes on my work that I stopped seeing him out the window as often. Or perhaps, just maybe he was coming less and less often.  

The days I did see him he seemed to be waiting _longer_ , burning through more cigarettes and a frown appearing as time went on. I wanted to question it, I wanted to know why he was waiting there for longer, why the beautiful boy with curly hair two years above didn't jump into his arms where he stood waiting.  

"They had a fight!" Luke told me with his eyes shining bright, clutching a binder to his chest filled with _pretty_ doodles and _pretty_ words to pass his _pretty pink lips._  

I wasn't listening as he rambled, I didn't care to know who he spoke off. But still he proceeded to speak, telling me in detail about the boy two years above who is the centre of my friends love.  

Id ask him what he was talking about as he walked down the halls, but then he paused. Eyebrows furrowed as if in surprise that his words had become nothing more than smoke drifting past to me. As his _oh so bright_ blue eyes rolled I pulled down the sleeves that covered unfortunate arms as he explained. His voice was slow, to the point as if he was talking to a _goddamn child._

_"Ashtons boyfriend."_


	11. 0.9

Had this been a mystery of sorts, it would have been quite possible to say I now had a lead. Truth be told, I had never intended on finding anything out about the boy that seemed to haunt my mind, conscious or not isn't exactly the point. I was perfectly content with trying to convince myself he didn't exist as I found refuge in watching him ghost through life.  

Or at least, that's what I told myself.  

In truth: I had always wanted to know who he was. I had always wanted to know his name, where he came from and who he was. I would try to convince myself it didn't matter, that I should spend less time obsessing over someone I will never know and spend more time trying to doge my fathers drunken blows. But, it wasn't possible. It's impossible not to be curious about the person that haunts your every waking thought, slips in and out of your dreams like a _phantom through stone._

I often wondered his name. I often wondered of the life he lived. Was he a teenager? Did he come from this town? Had he fallen in love before? Were his family more than just fake smiles in a picture frame? So many questions would fill my mind as I thought about the boy that would dance down the streets, a smile on his lips with shadows clinging to his skin. But also the very same who would fall to his knees, and every time, I worried he may never get back up off of them.  

All I knew of the boy was how he could never seem to part with the cigarettes placed between his lips, and the boy he looked to love from two years above.  

I wanted to ask questions, I wanted to have a way of finding then out. I urged myself to move forward, to corner the curly haired boy with the _oh so bright_ hazel eyes (as Luke corrected me with a huff) who was laughing with his friends and ask him all the questions I had been dying to know. But I couldn't do that. No, I could never do that.  

Instead I would just watch him from the corners of my eyes and dream of what he could know. I wanted to know obvious things, like his name; I wanted to know _little_ things, like the way he took his tea, if he even liked it at all; I wanted to know _big_ things, like why he runs out in front of the road when he thinks no one is there to know.

It hurt me to realise I may never know the boy that has such a tight hold on me as he may. He could know everything. With his _oh so bright_ hazel eyes and his _loud_ and _infectious_ laugh. He could know everything that makes him _mad_ and everything that _matters_ to him while I wonder every night the _answers_ to such questions.  

Often as I stared, as I bored holes into the back of the seventeen year olds head, Luke with his _oh so bright_ naive blue eyes would ask what I was doing. He would question if I was _alright_ , ask what was wrong and if there was anyway to _help_.  

I could never answer him truthfully.  

I wasn't sure why, it made no sense to me really why I couldn't. But by now I was so used to being _silent_ , keeping my thoughts, my foolish hopes and all to real fears to myself that I seem to have forgotten how to tell the _truth_ when faced with these questions.  

It wouldn't take him long to forget what he was asking whenever the topic of Ashton Irwin with his _oh so bright_ hazel eyes and _loud_ and _infectious_ laugh would flow past my lips. His eyes would glaze and his smile would turn dreamy as he grazed at the boy I felt emotions towards that I couldn't seem to explain. ( _Anger? Sadness? Jealousy?_ ) He'd begin to ramble as id fade away again, back to thoughts of tanned skin boys that smoke more than they seem to weigh.  

His words would pull me from my thoughts at some points, bits and pieces about the boy he loves as the one I long for finds his way into it. Luke would speak as he were in a dream, continuing to speak though Id ask him to repeat. Snapping fingers before his glazed over eyes until they're colour returned, with oh so bright blue eyes he'd stare in confusion as I asked him again.  

He would shrug his shoulder as if it were nothing. Plucking a grape from the little tub in front of him as he prattled on, speaking of the tanned boy I long for yet he has no clue of.  

"No, his name. What did you say it was?" Id ask him again, staring hard into childish blue eyes as the blond boy tilted his head as if me wondering that was absurd.  

But to him it was, and I see why. Rarely will I speak, rarely if ever I will notice people and never, never do I interrupt his ramblings about the boy he loves. But none the less as oh so bright blue eyes blinked, the words he spoke burned themselves into my mind.  

_"Calum, Calum Hood."_


	12. 1.0

It was four months after he stumbled into my life, darting across the sea of tarmac for it's waves of roaring machines to consume him, that I finally spoke to the boy that haunted my dreams.

Four months before I had lived a life I deemed as the norm. Sleep was rare and my fathers yells were common. My eyes were dull and I forgot what it meant to care. A sharp tongue or grades teetering too close to _average_ or dared dip _below_ , equalled a bruised jaw and stars lighting up my eyes. But, then he slipped into sight, in the path of a cars head lights and suddenly, _things changed._

Two months after, I found out about the boy he'd wait for outside my school building was the same my best friend loved. It was then, after two months of wide eyes in the night and dreaming of tanned skin and dark eyes as I fell asleep at my desk, that I finally discovered he was not a dream.

Then, three moths after he fell into my life as he bathed in a speeding cars headlights was whenever I discovered his name. I expected something to come from knowing it. That perhaps, something would change once I could pair a name to the face that haunted my dreams night after night and even day after day. Though nothing changed bar handing in less and less assignments as I spent my days trying to find out who he was, forgetting fear of my fathers striking hand and my mothers disappointed eyes for becoming what I was never meant to be: _ordinary_.

But it was four months. four months of spending every night searching for his face in the darkness. Four months of wondering who he really was. Four months of dreaming of his voice speaking directly to me. It took four months of waiting, watching, wanting, until we spoke for the very first time.

Whenever I saw him, it was unlike other times. I did not see him from the safety of my own home. I did not watch him through the thick glass of my classroom window nor across the wide main road. Actually, I didn't even see him at all for the most part.

My feet had hit the pavement quick and heavy, pushing my body forward, away from where I hid from. _Faggot_ freak _fatass_. Words circles my mind like water would circle the drain. Knees grazed, tears drying and ghosts of bruises decorating my skin. Breathing _labored_ and _pained_ , eyes _burning_ , chest _heaving_ ; all I wanted was to get out, to be able to run until my feet could no longer carry me and fall to the ground in a place where no one would ever know who I was. Somewhere were I was not known as the pathetic human being I seem to have become.

But that didn't happen.

Because my feet skidded on the tarmac and my fingers curled in dark brown hair, eyes closed tight so all there was were tiny pricks of light dancing in the darkness if my eyes. My back hit the wall and my breathing somewhat slowed. My hands fell from my hair as cigarette smoke hit me from the side that I turned to face, smoke curling along to _kiss my skin_ and _fill my own lungs_ with the intoxicating sent, lips ready to form the words of _will you just fuck off_ before they stopped at the eyes that greeted mine.

They were lighter than I thought, though dead and dull like I always pictured. Deep brown suited him my mind whispered, they make him seem more alive though god knows he's probably dead on the inside. His lips were full like I first perceived, but they were chapped and torn in the most intriguing away. His cheeks were hollowing and his skin looked sickly. His hair was greasy and fell in his eyes from where it was pushed to the side. But even that, paired with the smoke that billowed from his lips to hit me straight in the fact: he was quite possibly the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

There was silence. Pure, simple silence loaded with a thousand questions I couldn't think to move my lips to speak. He didn't move, nor did I. But we stood, staring each other in the eyes as if awaiting the others move like chess players, sitting in silence as they calculate each and every move before finally reaching _check mate._

_"What's wrong?"_


	13. ( ♡ )

_**“People spot a big black lens, and they worry about what they're doing, or how their hair looks. Nobody sees the person holding the camera.”** _

_**Erica O'Rourke** _


	14. 1.1

There was a moment of silence after the words were spoken. It dragged on, and on, _and on_ like no answer would ever come. It'd be a lie to say my palms didn't _sweat_ as all he did was _blink_ , long eyelashes fanning out over high cheekbones before he looked at me again.

He paused for a moment, but then his pretty chapped lips curved into a smile that held no humour nor love. His hair was stringy, greasy as it fell into his eyes while the cigarette left his lips. “What's wrong with me?” He echoed before his bony shoulders shrugged. “Everything, or nothing at all maybe.”

And he stopped with that. But then I swear that his eyes turned cold as he stared down at the embers of his burning cigarette. I swear I saw his lips part, and I swear I heard him utter the words: but then again, maybe I didn't see anything at all.

“I want to die, but I want to live. Can that be counted as wrong?”

Then it was my turn to pause, to blink yet stare as I asked myself if I should reply. So, I asked him to repeat himself, but then his shoulders shrugged as he looked up from the ground, fingers pushing through dull hair. He told me it was nothing as he dragged his thumb across his lip whenever the cigarette parted from them. I could help but watch, but it wasn't unlike me to be captivated by whatever he does.

"what's wrong with you, then?" He asked me after a pause. And though I stared at his lips as they moved, compelled by the torn skin that looked red and raw, I barely heard the words he spoke. He repeated them again and that's when my eyes flew up. His eyebrow raised and chapped lips pulled in a pretty smirk I felt the rush of blood to my face. But then just as he had, my shoulders shrugged as my fingers moved through my hair, I told him _nothing_ but he gave me a look as if he knew it was _something_.

"pretty boys shouldn't cry." He told me and I swore my heart broke through my chest with how hard it banged against my ribs. It didn't stop as my eyes lowered to my feet, it continued to beat maddeningly as a laugh escaped my lips I had to force, saying good thing I wasn't a _pretty boy_ then.

But then his fingers tucked under my chin and I forgot how to breathe. His eyes were sparking though they were dull I swore I saw a light, a glint of _amusement_ as he raised my head and I didn't know what to do whenever he said, "I meant pretty boys like _you_."

I wanted to say something. I wanted to have some kind of retort that I could be sure would make his heart hammer like mine did. But no words came as my cheeks flared with heat, tear tracks forgotten and bruises nothing more than faint memories. His voice was slow, it was tired but I swore within it there would be a laugh, pitched with a giggle and a smile to pull at full lips. But i did nothing. _Nothing_ as he stared, _nothing_ as I stared back, and _nothing_ when the bell rang for period eight.

But then his eyes directed over my shoulder at the ring of the bell and his hand fell from my face which felt _cold_ at the sudden movement. But it lingered as his open palm grazed along my arm, fingertips _ghosting_ along covered skin I hated to see as he stepped away, eyes looking back to me. "Id better be going," he told me as he moved away while I was left there with what just happened on reply.

As he moved away I did not react, though in my mind I begged him to stay. And as he moved away, it seemed like I could _breathe_ again. But then his voice rang out clear. He called my name and my heart stopped at the way the letters curved as they came from his lips, curling in the air with a beautiful sound that made me wonder if that was what _angels_ sounded like.

Then I felt his hand on my shoulder as his lips brushed against my ear, sparking something in my chest like striking a match against rugged brick.

_"I saw you."_


	15. 1.2

“I saw you.”

The words echoed in my mind like a feverish dream that burned itself into my subconscious. They _floated_ , they _hung_ around and they _stuck_ in my mind like flies to a spiders web as they were wrapped up by the theories, conclusions and unanswered questions my mind came up with.

_I saw you._

Where, when, why, how. All the questions I asked myself had so many possible answers but none quite chilled me to the bone as one did. One theory. One conclusion. One goddamn question I fear to be true though I knew it was the only _rational_ thing it would be.

I forgot what sleep was as my mind wondered in the night. I stared up at the boards of the ceiling that hung low above my creaking bed. I heard his words on replay like a broken record, singing again and again on a never ending loop as they wrote themselves onto the old wooden boards above my head.

They started off _big_ , large lettering in pure print screaming out what had been said. Then they got _smaller_ , skinnier in script as they scraped along the wood. The letters would _fatten_ or _thin_ , they would become _stout_ or _elongated_ just to take up any space there was left. Soon enough they filled all available space though I knew it to only be my imagination that created the writing on my ceiling, and part of me almost dares to think it was only my imagination that created the words themselves.

_I saw you._

But saw me where pray tell, for my very thoughts could only run amuck in my mind as I hunted for another answer beyond the one that I feared to be true.

The rational part of me fought to say that he hadn't meant what I thought. That simply must have heard him wrong because there is no chance on gods green earth that he could have meant what haunted my mind.

There was no way he had seen me, no way in hell. I stuck to the shadows and wore them like a cloak of invisibility, hiding myself in the darkness of the still night. Whether those shadows came from the old tree in my garden, or the house who's porch I hid on and even my own second floor room.

No, he couldn't have seen me there. He couldn't have seen me, but he saw me _somewhere_.

The rational side of my brain came up with a number of theories, conclusions even while a voice seemed to battle and batter each and every one of them.

The mall. _But I never go there._

The park. _He would never go there._

In school. _Obviously I was there, its not important._

Somewhere else. _But there was nowhere else._

Or perhaps that was the irrational part of my mind.

In fact: that _was_ the irrational part of my mind. The rational was that whispering voice that never shuts up like a guilty conscience.

The realisation hit me like the car that wrapped it's front hood around the dented lampost at the end of my street.

My fathers words angered words and crumpled report card faded away, my mother's blissful ignorance as she sang along to the radio became background noise as I gripped the glass in my hand so hard that if I had noticed, perhaps I would have feared it shattering.

He saw me. He saw me as I hid like a child in fear of being seen. He saw me as I watched him I wide eyed wonder. He saw me, as I hid so I could see him.

He saw me, and I wasn't sure what that meant.

But, at this realisation came another as I remembered the brush of his lips, the warm breath that tumbled past them and ghosted along my skin in such a way that had me closing my own eyes, wanting something more than just those words.

But it was _before_.

 _Before_ hot breath fanned out along my neck. _Before_ the brush of his lips made my hair stand on end and my heart beat falter. _Before_ his palm pressed to my shoulder as fingers grazed along my white school shirt.

The realisation of that moment before hit me as my fathers own hand collided with my cheek, and the glass I once held _shattered_ against the ground.

_"He said my name."_


	16. 1.3

It was beautiful in the kind of way that made my skin crawl and a fire light somewhere within of me that refused to burn out.

The way he said my name replayed in my mind like that song you can never stop singing and that tune you always find yourself humming.

It was always there.

Sitting in the back of my English class, with words tumbling past everyone's lips that wind around your mind like vines, and trip on your tongue like a cartwheel as they fall past parted lips. But my mind is else where.

My mind is beyond the world of _thou_ and _thee_. Skirting around the edges of _want_ and _need_. My body is in English but my mind is in music: listening to the flow of spoken word that chills me to the bone more efficiently than words from centuries ago repeated so often they've lost they're flavor; and music from the time of powered wigs with white dusted skin.

Id hear the sound of his voice, fit for melody and shiny things like music with a rhythm and beat. Id feel the brush of his lips and curse at how they didn't linger as I wished.

I wanted nothing more than that feeling again. Where my heart stopped mid beat, where my mind went blank and my skin felt _hot_ and _electric_ because there was a need that cant be _described_.

A groan or a _moan_ , a whimper and a _plead_.

Intense or _soft_ , broken and _breathy_.

Those thoughts drove me _closer_.

But closer to what, the edge?

No, but closer to _something_.

 _Somewhere_.

Closer to _insanity_.

And perhaps, on occasion, my eyes may have wandered had the time been right. Maybe green eyes that lost their light long ago like a light bulb that had blown managed to gaze out the sheets of glass wedged together that held me in, to what lay outside.

Really, it felt oddly like watching an animal at the zoo: horribly depressing, intensely curious and still oddly beautiful.

He'd stand there, leaning against the side of the building with a cigarette between his lips as his eyes followed whatever poor creature passed by before closing again. But in my mind, I saw him as that quiet lion that strays away from the action of the center of the pen. Stalking around the edge of its cage, dark eyes following the people as they pass though there is no care within him to follow.

Watching him, as a viewer would to those startlingly large big cats was something I will admit to being guilty of. But, that wasn't exactly a secret anymore.

But unlike the onlookers and the big cats trapped in their cages: There was one subtle difference.

Every time I looked.

He would would already be looking.

_"Mr Clifford, pay attention!"_


	17. 1.4

"Did you hear? Ashton scored the winning goal last night!"

"Oh my god. He cut his hair."

"He touched me, Michael! He actually touched me-! Well, it was to grab my pen, but still."

"I honestly don't see a point in angels existing if Ashton already does."

Luke is like bubble gum in my mind. He's fun and sugar sweet, always there to brighten your day with his cavity inducing _grin_ , _snap_ and _pop_.

But then again, not everyone likes bubble gum. I for one have an intense love hate with it, even more so when it takes the shape of a six foot four, blue eyed boy that speaks before he thinks.

Luke liked to talk about Ashton about as much as he likes him: which was far too much. He would ramble in my ear as I nod my head, pretending to listen as I wonder whether my father would be away for the night as I hope. A grin would be stuck to his charming features while I fake a smile of my own, listening to him speak of his love for a boy who will never know he exists.

At least I have the common sense not to speak of it.

The words he'd say would go into one ear then flow out the other without a moments pause for me to register a thing. It was the like the buzz of a bee close to my ear, high and long, it seemed never ending to the point I wanted to swat him out of the air and not care if he collide with the ground so long as the noise stops for even a moment.

"I still cant believe it, I mean Ashton fucking Irwin is single now! Well, his middle name is Fletcher not fucking but that's not the point and no one needs to know that I took a peek at his classes registration form to find that out whenever I was picking up my pe kit from the of-."

"wait, what?"

It was the like the fog that clouded my mind lifted, snapping me back into reality as I looked at Luke who didn't even take a moment to pause as he continued to ramble on. His cheeks were flushed red and he had that _awkwardnervous_ look on his face like kid caught in the midst of a lie about who farted in class.

"Okay so maybe I looked at it purposely whenever the receptionist went to grab my bag for me. But that's not the point! I'm not a creeper I swear, I'm just- I'm curious? - oh god, I'm so creepy. He probably hates me, if he even knows I e-."

"Luke, you are creepy." I dead panned, inwardly screaming for the blond to just _shut up for five seconds_ so I can try and get a word out.

The chatter of the lunch room was giving me a headache and Lukes babbling was only worsening the dull ache that began to form as a result. The blonde look deflated, eyes screaming _'you're such an ass Michael'_ as his lips formed a pout that maybe someone else would find irresistible.

"What do you mean he's single?" I asked slowly, so it could get through to my thick friend.

When it came to Luke, Ashton was like a good painkiller that makes you see everything in a fuzzy light and everything just feels so much sweeter even if its tastes a little odd and everyone sounds like they're talking weirdly when in reality its just you.

Luke paused, eyebrows furrowed as if thinking back to something that was probably buried under smiles not directed to him imprinted on his mind. "Oh, yeah."

His lips set to a straight line and his brow furrowed in a way that would have been comical had it not meant to be serious. At that moment it seemed like the busy lunch room around us faded out a little more like some dramatic movie scene that's in every teen drama and love story of the past century.

_"They broke up."_


	18. 1.5

I didn't know how to react whenever he spoke, so I stayed silent and maybe, that was the best reaction.

The time between seeing him has become unmeasurable. No matter how many times the sunsets, nor how many days of sitting in a class I burn through without hearing a word: I cant quite grasp a hold of _reality_ for long enough to count the days.

I couldn't count the total of the English lessons I sat through. Staring out the window while the words turned from Shakespeare to Steinbeck in the time it took for me to look away from the empty parking lot, no longer littered with forgotten cigarette stubs and curls of smoke to hide the culprit.

There was no sum to the amount of days I heard of the newly single Ashton Irwin. Each speech, each _rambling_ and _breathless_ session filled with wide eyed wonder blurred into one as I sit there, nodding my head to words I don't hear while wondering when he will next appear.

I never tried to count the days or nights he didn't appear as they all just blurred into one as I waited for his shadowed figure as the night turned to dawn then dusk, time and time again.

Sleepless nights weren't rare and and few. They were _mundane_ and _numerous_. Sitting on the porch as I watch the roads, I've lost count of the nights I would count the colours of the cars driving past before slipping into restless unconsciousness that left me feeling  more tired than ever before.

It was like time stilled as I clung onto the hope of dawn, watching the head lights dancing on the tarmac like stars. It was like a crude, human interpretation of natures creation. A beauty we could not hope to recreate no matter how we try.

I wasn't sure if I was waiting for him now. I wasn't sure if I still expected him as I did. But I had so many questions, things that needed to be asked, that needed to be said before they drive me insane as they run in circles in my head.

The highway rarely stilled. It was always _moving_ , someone always _travelling_ , something always breaking the _silence_ that slipped in like bird song to my tired mind. The roads were like clogged arteries in the day, congestion and traffic trying to push through like blood though stuck and clotting from waiting for so long. At night, it was different.

In the night it was like a _ghost town_. Travellers were sparse and few, the purr of an engine breaking through the silence long before the machine crawled into view. At night you could trick yourself for a few moments into believing that the roads were _quiet_ , that they were _benevolent_ and could cause _no harm_. That is, until the next car tears through the silence at break neck paces that cause your skin to burn from friction though you weren't even close enough to _touch_.

Watching the roads became a habit after I turned thirteen. Back when I first moved, uprooted from my little life in a pretty house in a quaint town. Thrown into a small life with a barely there roof over my head in a city going seventy an hour while I only seem to be going at twenty.

I was practically standing still. But still crawling along just enough to stay _alive_.

I sat by the window at two thirty eight, all tired eyes and aching limbs with fingers on the strings like they could heal something I didn't know how I broke. My eyes would linger on what lay outside, my legs crossed on the old bed that lay along the window with flattened pillows and covers on the floor.

I saw him wondering again and from above he almost looked normal. From above you couldn't tell how his cheeks looked hallow when caught in the street lights, you couldn't tell how his eyes seemed dead and how clothing made to cling hung from his thin frame. He looked normal, though I knew he was not.

As I watched, I still had questions swimming in my mind for the boy who stood under the lamplight, cigarette between his lips and a lighter in his hand. I still needed answers for things I hadn't the right to question. For sometime he lingered, cigarette between his lips as he watched the quiet road while my fingers travelled along the worn out strings.

I didn't move to him, I didn't see a reason in doing so. Instead I say with fingers on the strings, head bowed with his imagine lingering in my mind as I tried to make a _melody_ to fit his _majesty_.

I expected him to be gone the next time I looked up. But he had yet to move. The cigarette between his lips had burned dangerously low but he didn't move. But he stared, and for the first time, I felt _visible._

But I pushed myself to my feet, pulling the curtains to the side while murmuring to himself words he spoke weeks before. Hiding the purple and black mix that dusted along my jaw and eye.

_"Not tonight."_


	19. 1.6

Ashton Irwin had a break down in the middle of class.

Rumours didn't hesitate in flying. Hurried whispers, low murmurs and shifty glances around to make sure no one saw. Along the long corridor from the science block to the canteen, I heard every thing imaginable.

His parents were splitting up.

His sister has cancer.

He's secretly in witness protection and he cracked from the lies.

He flipped out because someone touched him without permission.

He got a text from his ex.

Luke sat and steamed for all of the lunch period. _Grumbling_ and _mumbling_ about the eighteen year old that's so out of his league as he stabbed at pasta with a plastic fork until it snapped in half.

I paid no heed. Instead I did as I always did. Nodding my head and picking at the food on my plate, earphone in to try and drown out what was happening though still acting like I was listening. I didn't care about the wonderful Ashton, I didn't care for why he cried, I didn't care that he cried at all or whatever he had done.

But for the sake of the _oh so bright_ blue eyed boy that sat before me, non-existent love life crumbling, I pretended like I cared. I pretended like I cared the same way I pretended that I didn't contemplate hitting my head off the wall everything time he opened his trap to talk about someone who'll never know he exists.

I wasn't sure if I was awake or not whenever I sat in English. It was highly possible I was simply dreaming, that I had finally slipped into some state that resembled _sleep_ and was rewarded with images that were more than just _heavy static_ that pricked my skin.

After all, a dream is the only reason I would see the curls of smoke from the corner of my tired eyes and the glint of dark hair in the sunlight.

My teachers words seemed never ending, forever in the same dry tone that made every word taste like _boredom_ and _sarcasm_ infused into one awful mixture that could make you feel both stupid and tired at the same time: a feeling that I am far too used to. The heel of my hand dug into my cheek, my eyelids heavy and I could barely seem my head up much less my eyes opened as I stared out the classroom window.

So, with that in mind, it was only logical I thought he was nothing more than a mirage.

There he stood like he did only a few weeks before. Cigarette pressed to lips with his back against the old oak; smoke tumbling past his lips, curling into the air and clouding his eyes from sight. Fingers pushing back messy hair from dark eyes, ankle crossed over the other. In the daylight, he was a sight for sore eyes.

I made to look away, but I didn't and I'm glad for that. Because the moment I went to turn away, to face the white board with words scrawled on it that made no sense to me: the thin mist of smoke that hung like a veil before his eyes disappeared, and I saw what he was looking towards.

Eye contact is something difficult for me. So, whenever it is over a long distance the chances of me squirming in my seat are more likely. Hence why I shifted, but never broke contact.

That was when I saw his hand raise, gesturing as that cigarette passed his lips along with the words I could not hear. But I didn't need to hear them to know what he meant.

Two fingers, they curled towards him, beckoning, dark eyes creating something of a trance I can't will myself to try and fight.

_"Miss, may I be excused?"_


	20. 1.7

Skipping class is something I'm used to. It's something I do to clear my head when my senses have been numbed by a fog I cannot lift, or hide from the looks and laughter sounding like nails on a chalk board, causing my own to dig into my flesh. But I must admit, never have I been quite so nervous.

All I could hear was the tap of my feet against the tiled hallway floor. Classes went on around me without bother, teachers _rambling_ and students not _listening_ , it was like everything was frozen yet still continuing as always. The hallway was so silent you could hear a pin drop, sound ricocheting like a _gun shot_ off the lockers and poster covered walls. It was unnerving, like a scene from a horror film and I was the first to go.

I was _panicked, stressed_ and I could practically feel beads of cold, uncomfortable _sweat_ beginning to _drip_ down the back of my neck. My hands felt shaky, in fact, I swore my whole body was swaying like branches in the breeze as I shoved sweaty hands into the pockets of scratchy school trousers. Hair in my eyes, shoulders bowed with bottom lip between teeth, I couldn't help but worry.

What if he hadn't meant me? What if there was someone else in that room he beckoned forward? What if it was all just my imagination trying to create something to make my life more _worthy_.

What if.

I couldn't seem to calm my worried mind. Every little _what if_ crashed into me like waves to the shore and my stomach was twisting in knots as I got closer, and closer still to the door at the end of the hall. The only thing standing between me and him, to sound dramatic that is.

(In reality there was also a stretch of concrete.)

I made a decision as I got closer to the doors and as my stomach churned. If it wasn't just _paranoia_ , if it was true that perhaps he hadn't meant for it to be me: then I could escape with my dignity or what I have left of it still attached.

I'll just walk by, I told myself with a deep breath as if to remind myself that I could actually breathe. If he stops me, he meant it to be me. If he doesn't, well, then I'll close the bathroom door behind me and wonder why even the idea of that hurts as much as it does.

My hands still shook.

When I reached the door, the very same emergency exit I ran out of with tears steaming and ears burning from things I wished had never been said: I pushed it open, without a single thought on turning back.

The sun was bright, blindingly so as it shone in my eyes. Head ducked down, dark hair falling out of place, I looked around myself. Despite the sun that shone into my eyes, heat waves rolling like sound waves above the pavement, I managed to see him.

So, I walked to him.

I kept my head down, just enough for the strands of faded dyed hair to fall into my eyes only enough to hopefully give off the illusion of being unable to see. But I could. Because I saw him. He stood with a foot propped up against the bark of the tree which his back pressed to, cigarette between his lips with stubs littering by his feet. The sun shone off his tanned skin, carving out the hallows of under his eyes and catching the sheen of his hair every time he moved his head.

But I lowered my head. Heart _pounding_ , stomach _churning_ and mind a _mess_ ; I edged closer and closer still, until I was about to pass.

And with that, my heart _stopped._

_“Hey.”_


	21. 1.8

“Hi.”

I still didn't look up.

I was staring down at my feet, unsure of what to _do_ , unsure of what to _say_. I just distracted myself with pointless little thoughts on how the ground by his left foot had a crack, there was a pebble in between us and I'm pretty sure there was a squished grape to the side. He was wearing converses, maybe vans, I couldn't know. All the shoes I owned were either brand named and unopened or knock offs that were practically falling off of my feet. But whether brand or not, what was covering his feet wasn't all that important. But how close they were? Well, that was another thing.

“I see your bruise healed. Must of hurt when you got it.”

“What bruise?” I challenged, though my eyes were still downcast. I swore I could feel his eyes on me. Burning, scalding, marking my skin with the intensity of a stare I can't even be sure is there.

“The one taking up a good half of your face.” Perhaps if I had looked up, I may have noticed that he had a pointed look, for his tone lead me to believe that to be so.

“I don't know what you're talking about, Calum.” I replied, stronger than I thought. My voice didn't crack, though I knew if I continued it would. Like a building tremor after tremor, eventually, it will give way, having suffered through too much abuse to continue on.

“You know my name.”

I looked up.

His eyes were bright, far brighter than I ever expect to see him. They held something, maybe laughter, amusement. My cheeks were flushed red at being caught - but in turn, I was too caught off guard to really care. His lips were pulled into something of a smile, though it bordered upon a smirk. The kind that was memorable to the point I knew it would reply in my mind long after this day has passed.

"And you know mine."

"Touché."

He shrugged and my cheeks were still _flushed_.

Silence ebbed on, maybe it was awkward, maybe not. I've never been good at telling. I just watched him, gazing greedily upon features that were so rare to be seen by my own eyes much less in daylight, forget about how close. His brow was _furrowed_ and he seemed to have _paused_ , though he hadn't said anything. But, before he could speak there was the high, sharp ring of a school bell and we both seemed to realise where we were. Or, maybe that was just me.

"You should get to class." He said, and my stomach fell to my feet.

"Wait why did you want me out here?" Asking was futile, because by the time the words passed my lips the hum of students in halls began and he was walking away, smirk gone and expression neutral as he flicked the stub of a cigarette I forget he had to the side.

And I was left, doors opening behind me and people bumping into my ridge frame while trying to make sense of his last words. Clinging to them like sand after the water had managed to slip through my fingers.

_"Maybe next time."_


	22. 1.9

I've never understood true friendship. But then again, that's probably because I've never had one I've had to understand before.

"I want to ask him out."

Had this been some high school drama, there more than probably have been a slam of a tray against the lunch table at that. But instead it was just a plastic container with his lunch that hit the table instead. Not as effective, but still made a bit of a point.

But the scrambling to grab the apple that fell off the top kind of ruined it.

Like always, I kept my mouth shut and just let Luke do as he wanted. Though I had an urge to inform him of how I highly doubted a guy _two years above who doesn't even know his name_ would want to _be with him_ , I didn't. Instead I just let him talk, trying to care with my chin rested on my palm, head nodding once and a while as he rambled about the oh so unattainable Ashton Irwin with his _oh so bright_ hazel eyes (not green, Michael, but _hazel_ ).

I don't know how friendships work, at least, not really. I never had a friend until I met luke. I'm not sure how it started, im not sure if its always been this way, but from ever since I can remember, I didn't have friends. There were no kids in pre school that wanted to talk to the _shy boy_ that played with _Lego_ in the corner. There were no kids in primary that wanted to be friends with the _quiet boy_ that kept his nose in a _book_. And there were no teenagers in high school that thought it would be cool to hang out with the _kid that sits at the back_ with his _earphones in to tune the world out_.

Until I met luke; but even then, im not sure if this is friendship.

He was new when we met. Fresh of fourteen, long blonde bangs and an old varsity jacket I now know belonged to his brother Jack. He was the stereotypical _new_ kid trying to come off as a _cool_ kid. He was popular for a bit, made the right ( _wrong_ ) kind of friends who chewed him up and spit him out.

That was when we met.

We had biology together, nothing special. It was day that they spat him back out, everyone _laughing_ in the halls and _whispering_ in class about the scrawny blond boy with hair in his eyes and words weighing his shoulders down. He sat in the chair across from me and no one would leave him alone. Notes were being past, looks were being shot and words muttered around the class. But it wasn't until Darien Lake decided to say something that things changed.

"What's wrong, Lukey?" He said, voice of venom and evil glinting eyes. "Sad your little crush doesn't like faggots?"

 _Oh so bright_ blue eyes I never thought would become so familiar to me weld with tears. Students cackled like they had never heard anything funnier. And when the first tear drop hit the desk, I had enough of some kid being the schools new laughing stock.

"Piss off, Lake. I would tell you to go fuck yourself, but considering your dick is too soft to screw a whore like your girlfriend, im guessing you don't have that ability.”

After that day, Darien shut up, and I had a new biology partner.

"Your dad works away at the weekends, right? Right. Okay, so here's what we do: we can finish the Music project on Friday through Saturday, try to brainstorm how I'll get Ashton to date me and maybe catch a movie."

I blinked.

Luke just sat there, chewing on the pasta I didn't even notice him open. Innocently blinking his _oh so bright_ blue eyes with his head tilted, waiting for a response which I wasn't sure of as of yet.

This wasn't part of the deal of our friendship. We sit together in class, we work on projects and I help him with English. This isn't how we do things.

_"Um.. Yeah?"_


	23. 2.0

Timing is a peculiar thing. Sometimes it works in your favour, other times, maybe not. Its something that can be iconic, or maybe just ironic.

In this case, im going for the latter.

It was strange to walk home with someone else. To have a _voice_ chattering in my ear instead of a _melody_ playing from my earphones. I couldn't lose myself in thought, as for once I was too busy listening to ignore him and _think_.

The times when Luke wasn't talking about him were the best. Because those were the times when he laughed a little _louder_ and he seemed a little more _there_. Not love struck and out of this world because he's trying to think of ways for the boy with _oh so bright_ hazel eyes to love him like he wants.

He becomes _Luke_ , someone I consider a friend. Not _lovestruck Luke_ , im not sure what he is to me.

The day went by far faster than I thought.

I never had a friend, so I wasn't sure what to do. We stayed in my room and I thought we would get the project out of the way but the next thing I knew Luke fell to my bed, stretching out like a yawning cat. I stood there staring for a moment, wondering what to do before he began talking and it all felt kind of _normal_.

We talked, and talked, and talked until it felt like we ran out of topics yet I knew there was more to say. I had so many chances to bring him up, with Luke smiling at me with those _oh so bright_ blue eyes urging me on to talk about _anything_ , id deflect like there was _nothing_ on my mind.

It was twelve before talk of the project came about. Sitting on either end of my bed, legs pulled to our chests with everything thrown into the inflatable mattress on the floor. He looked me in the eye, voice sure and said.

"I want to do a love song."

I stared at him for a moment, as if to sat _what the hell are you thinking_. But I didn't say anything, I just shrugged my shoulders, the reply obviously not satisfying enough for him.

"like, a good love song. Not all slow and shit, but just about yeno.. love, and shit." He continued, like cursing and shrugging his shoulders would play it off like he didn't give half as much of a damn as we both knew he did.

But I just shrugged again. Pushing away from the head board of my bed, my knees digging into the mattress as I grabbed a hold of the old acoustic by my window. With crossed legs I sat back down, guitar on my lap with my fingers on the strings, as if waiting for something to play.

"So.. Can we do it?" He asked, eager like a child from the light in his eyes, though expression scolded to come across as far less.

I didn't reply, only nodded my head once confirmation. The grin that spread along his lips made me forget for a moment how fucked wed be for singing a love song. It's not the fact it was about love that would make it hard. It was the fact it was us. It was two _outcasts_ , singing about falling in love when they know not everyone will agree with _whom_ their love is directed to.

But for sometime there we sat, throwing out random lyrics, pointless melodies while trying to string together something good enough to be marked. With a book of lyrics beneath my bed and melodies still in my head, I kept those to myself.

"Mike, there's someone staring at the house."

One thirty. Lights out. Street quiet. I could feel the hair raise on the back of my neck at the realisation that the _luck_ is never on my side.

_"I'll be right back."_


	24. ( ♡ )

_**“A couple of times in your life, it happens like that. You meet a stranger, and all you know is that you need to know everything about them.”** _

_**Lisa Kleypas** _


	25. 2.1

I never realised until now just how much I rely on being alone.

I ignored lukes questions that he shot at me, rapid fire like a machine gun, bullets piercing my skin: though they couldn't make me speak. Footsteps light against the staircase, tugging on the old hoodie I always seem to see him in with my hair a mess and Luke chippering in my ear. I didn't know how to answer his questions, so I ignored them.

"Stay." I told him, poking a finger as if he may sit like an obedient dog as I grabbed the handle of the front door, voices hushed though my mother passed out with sleeping pills wouldn't awake for hours.

His eyebrows were drawn together, lips taut in a frown as I opened the front door, slipping out into the night with the realisation that _maybe_ I should have just ignored it.

But I couldn't ignore it. Not him. Not _ever_ , not _now_.

"Bad time?"

He stood on the footpath. I stood on the porch. Doused in the light of the streetlamp I could see the quirk of his brow, though his teasing tone and the raised corners of his lips, I could tell his question wasn't rhetorical this time.

But I shrugged, hands dug into the old hoodie I almost always wore, thinking back the look of confusion on the face of the boy I left in the hall.

"who's your friend?"

 _Why are you here?_ I bit my tongue.

"Just a guy." Again, my shoulders shrugged.

"Cool."

Silence.

I could have said he was my best friend. I could have said he was my _only_ friend. But I bit my tongue, and I said he was _no one_. His expression was neutral, I couldn't tell what he was thinking, but then again, maybe that was the point.

The silence ebbed on, filling the cracks if the conversation like freshly laid tarmac. Leaving it behind as the cement hardens, leaving nothing left to say.

"I better go then, wouldn't want to keep you from Blondie."

I wasn't sure why, but his tone was _sharp_ , prodding into my mind like a needle searching for a vein. As he stepped away from the light, I could feel something rise like panic within my chest. It _bubbled_ and _burned_ like bile as it reached my throat when I heard the click of his footsteps leading away until only his back could be seen.

"Wait!"

My heart pounded, the highway quiet I could hear the scrape of his shoes as he paused. Though he did not turn.

"What-.. Earlier, what - um - what did you want?" My palms felt sweaty, my hands felt shaky, I couldn't quiet grasp reality much less anything physical at this point.

"another time." He said, and I swore I heard the smirk of his lips just by the words that passed them.

"you said that last time." Voice _unsteady_ , nerves running _wild_ , I cursed myself for not being calm.

"true. because I didn't want an audience." Then, I became all too aware of the blond boy I left in the hall and as I turned, I saw that he was no longer hidden by the door.

"goodnight, Michael."

And with that he was gone. Leaving me with a gangly sixteen year old with a burning hatred by the boy who haunts my dreams as well, as it seems, my reality.

 _"How do you know him?"_


	26. 2.2

Secrets ruin things. They ruin _friendships_ , they ruin _relationships_ and that's because worst of all, they ruin _trust_.

Even more so if one party is overreacting.

I never understood the expression of ' _grilling_ ' someone for information before Calum left and Luke pulled me back inside. _Oh so bright_ blue eyes glaring at me hard, as I longed for the dull brown id caught myself up in like a fly to a web to come back and consume me calmly once again. But it wasn't like I could say that.

He questioned me until the sun came up, but I dodged everyone one of them. Like a street fight his words flew to me as I _ducked_ and _swerved_ , never one for playing dirty, staying on defence while deflecting every sharp word like a punch to the jaw and hurried whisper like a kick to the groin. If the act of avoiding his questions was a physical activity, I would be nearing body builder standard.

It didnt take long for me to discover that Luke did in fact know who he was. Nor did it take very long for me to also quickly understand the fact he wasn't happy upon this discovery. I thanked god for my mothers heavy hand with her sleeping pills considering the fact if she hadn't taken so many, she may have woken up to the occasional yell of disbelief that came from his mouth.

"What the _hell_ , Mike?"

I heard him say it so many times I began to wonder if that was all he could say.

He kept this look of disbelief the entire time. Staring at me like I was _insane_ , or like I had done something unforgivable like told Ashton Irwin how he gets _hard_ seeing him playing football - but id never, mainly due to the fact I wasn't even sure if that was true.

"how the fuck so you know him? He's insane, Michael. Like literally insane, do you not even listen to me anymore? He's dangerous.”

But I just rolled my eyes, though unease coursed through my veins.

 _Danger_ , the word was alluring to most. It promised _action, excitement_ , something that you will _never_ forget even when you're old and grey, unable to remember your own child's name, you will always remember that one fleeting moment of danger in which you escaped by the skin of your teeth.

Was that the feeling he gave me? Was that why I was so drawn to him? Just because like everyone else I craved more than the mundane and ordinary that my everyday life promised.

The thought was _sickening_.

Time ticked on, still moving, flowing past our climatic moment and stretching it on for hours. Silence ebbed in when conversation would fade out, but then a breath too loud or even a look in the wrong direction would start him again.

I didnt know what to do, what to say, how to act. So I did nothing. I kept my lips sealed and let him wear himself out in hopes the topic would wear itself down to nothing as his words would fade.

It was when dawn was breaking. Gold, pink and peach light dusting the sky with their benevolent glow as the sun began rising, like a friendly face you long to see. Curtains drawn, clock reading five forty seven, the light seeped in mingling with the silence that was meant to stretch on.

But he shifted, and he let out a breath. And suddenly, the words left my lips and his shoulders stiffened.

And then, I knew this topic would never die.

_"He makes me feel alive."_


	27. 2.3

It was Monday, therefore, he wasn't following schedule.

It wasn't like I was looking for him this time, or that it would make any kind of sense for him to be there in the first place. But he _was_. And I couldn't figure out _why_.

Hands shoved into pockets, head hung low, I tried to ignore those around me with the music that played too loud through my earphones.

The halls swelled, _thriving_ and _throbbing_ with students packed full of _hormones_ and _angsty_ teenage hopes and dreams that will inevitably be crushed one of these days. Everyone was loud, whether they spoke or not. The _slam_ of locker doors, the ever present elephant _thump_ of feet on the ground and constant _drone_ of talking and laughing from people with out any real care in the world. There wasn't a moment of silence, and I didn't expect there to be.

I was like a rag doll, too timid to push my way through the perfume dowsed and sweat coated body's that together formed what seemed to be a sea of bodies. Music on full blast, bass knocking against my skull, but still the shrieks and happy go lucky tones broke through. By the time I managed to slip through the crowd, sun kissing my cheeks and music flowing free - I felt like I could finally _breathe_.

The way I went home wasn't a romantic, dark little side path with overgrown trees with branches hanging low enough to touch and soft dappled light hitting the beautiful wreaks of homes once loved. In fact, it was pretty plain. My feet thumped against the footpath, like another heart beat as the cars drove by like blood running through veins. I walked along the main road - unsurprisingly - considering that was where I actually lived.

But this time, I didn't get far.

It still felt strange to see him. Even though we've spoken, words passing his lips made for me and not just the air around him and his darkened mind. He leaned up against the end of the school gates, back to the metal with the school bus lounging before his feet, ignoring the looks of passersby with a cigarette between his lips and the evidence of his chain smoking as stubs by his feet. I couldn't help how I slowed when walking to him. Heart beat hard, breathing stilled and head aching with sad questions to never be asked.

I half expected him to let me walk by. The other part hoped he would reach out a hand, fingers curling around my wrist and a _smile_ on his lips that made his dead eyes _light_. But, I didn't expect what happened.

As I passed, head hung low I saw a cigarette stub flicked to the floor, crunched under heel as I walked by. But then they were gone from sight, and past of my head ached at the realisation. But then my song ended as another went to play, I could hear footsteps following maybe too close behind. For a few moments, I wondered if he followed in my steps.

But when my feet hit the tarmac, ready to cross the busy road filled with students and adults alike - I felt an arm around my shoulder.

The next thing I knew, I was being guided away.

I didn't fight, for I knew who it was. Instead I took the earphones from my ears, old iPod slipped from pocket as I wrapped them around, yet never looking to his face. There was silence as we walked away, from my school, from my home and perhaps from my _common sense_.

"Where are we going?" I asked after a few moments of silence, the ever present him of car engines the only thing to ruin the moment as his hand gripped my shoulder and the shoulder pressed to mine shrugged.

Sometimes, I wonder if he even knows what he's doing.

_"To talk."_


	28. 2.4

"We could have talked back there."

I wasn't sure where we were going, and though I watched the scenery as a way of avoiding him; I couldn't tell where we were now. We had been walking in silence for a few minutes, even the cars themselves seemed to _quieten_ down for even a few moments at a time. His arm was still around my shoulder, but I didn't question it or push it away - nor even _lean_ into his touch for fear it may disappear if I dared to try.

"I know."

I was tempted to remind him how that wasn't a real answer. But, I had a feeling he already knew that.

For three years of my life, I've lived in the same spot. The same house on the edge of the road. The same little town that went too fast for me even at its _slowest_. But, I could count on one hand the amount of places I had been to and how to get to and from them.

The way he took me was not one of them. We walked in silence. Though his arm circled my shoulders, it felt like we were simply _existing_ side by side. As if we were nothing more than _strangers_.

Then again, we were.

"Has it healed yet?"

He didn't look to me. I'm not sure I wanted him to.

I ducked my head, knowing what he was asking about and knowing the answer should be a simple _no_. As if announcing its presences, I could feel my jaw _ache_ , remembering the now yellow and purple tones from the bathroom mirror this morning and the _sting_ of touch lathered in my mothers old concealer and foundation she swore went missing.

"I dont know what you're talking about." I told him once again, already tired of lying to someone who seems to know everything.

"must have an interesting story behind it if you keep acting like its not there." It wasn't a question, and he still didnt look to me and I couldn't tell if he expected some kind of answer I couldn't make up so quick.

"where are we going?" I asked instead, in hopes that ignoring the question would make it - and whatever made him believe it - disappears even for a few minutes.

“somewhere.” he shrugged, as if it was an acceptable answer.

I tried to ignore the _annoyance_ that prickled my skin at his response, but I knew I couldn't be angry with him. It was pathetic really, that I was too intrigued, _enchanted_ really, to feel anything but some woeful awestruck _wonder_ when it came to anything he may do. Judgement _clouded_ , senses _dulled_ , maybe that was why I couldn't find a shred of _worry_ within myself at the fact I trusted a stranger more than I would trust my own _family_.

I wanted to ask what he needed me for. What conversation couldn't wait until some obnoxious time in the night as the last had. But I didn't. I could feel the words resting on my tongue, building up into sentences as they began to clog my throat. Questions, remarks and comments slipping back down my throat, _burning_ like _bile_ as I tried to keep them back like the tears that would build in my eyes from my fathers yells and screams on nights I wasn't strong enough to keep my eyes open - much less get myself out from the situations I've become far too used to.

Trees dotted along the sides of the street, cropping up in front of little houses and giving shade to passers by. Every street looks the same everywhere you go, I realised that long ago.Little houses for little families, kids shoving each other in the gardens, cars lounging in the driveway at the days end.

I could almost remember being like them. 

I was so caught up in my thoughts, I didn't even notice whenever the houses faded away and the road became that little bit louder. I didn't notice where we were at all until we stopped.

He stopped, I stumbled. 

_"The park?"_


	29. 2.5

In hindsight, the whole thing was strange. But the strangest thing of all, was that it felt normal. 

 

Most parks are filled with _life_. Shiny new equipment was placed in each in the city or was mid way through now, it was decided a few months back that it should be done, they said itd brighten everything up a bit. Kids are normally darting in and out laughing, chasing each other and smiling because it's all just so much fun. 

 

But this one seemed to have been looked over. 

 

The equipment was _old_ with flaky paint jobs and faded spray paint. It was _aged_ , lonely as the swings swayed in the silence of the wind. It seemed so _dead_ , soulless for somewhere so close to the life of a main road. 

 

The old swings creaked under our weight, but neither of us had said a word on it. We just swung, or he did, I just sat there with my toes dug into the sand as I tried to remember what in gods name made me think this was a good idea. 

 

"You know, you should lighten up."

 

His voice shocked me. Part of me had almost forgot he was there despite the fact he was all that was on my mind. 

 

When I looked over to him, I was surprised to find that he wasn't even looking my way. I almost wanted to wonder if he was even talking to be in the first place.

 

"I need to lighten up?" I echoed, watching as he kept on swinging, just barely moving forward and back. 

 

"No the other remarkably awkward and fringey teenager in this park." He rolled his eyes, whereas my hand moved self consciously to the fringe in question. "Your fringe is fine, you're missing the point."

 

He wasn't like I expected. He was louder, that bit more mouthy than he appeared with his vague responses from before. 

 

I didn't know how I felt about it. 

 

"The point is," he continued after a pause, "you need to just let things happen and stop trying to act like you don't exist and nothing's going on."

 

I hated myself sometimes for being so awkward. For never knowing what to say, for sitting in silence after what was said. But he didn't seem to be mad, he seemed to almost expect it. 

 

"Life happens kid, you can't pause it, stop it or rewind. You just gotta go with it, love it or hate it, you either keep on swimming or give up and let yourself drown."

 

"Is this what you wanted to talk to me about?" 

 

The fact you think I'm killing myself by keeping my head down when I know you're doing just as wrong to yourself by dodging out in front of cars. The words were hot on my tongue, _heavy_ and _thick_ like something gone off and burning like bile. But I kept them to myself. 

 

"No actually," he said with a laugh and this time he finally looked to me when he spoke. 

 

His eyes weren't dead like I thought for so long, but they weren't alive either. They just had a shine, like if they were polished just right they could shimmer again. The bags under his eyes weren't just as scary, and the hallow of his cheeks not just as pronounced as I once thought. He didn't look like he was death personified. But, he didn't quite look _alive_ either. 

 

But, everything felt normal, like maybe the not quite dead yet look of him fit right into my little world of invisibility. Where finally, I was seen behind my shield. 

 

_"I just wanted to talk."_

 


	30. 2.6

Calum Thomas Hood liked the colour blue, thought the fast and furious movies were over rated and football really was the way to his heart. 

 

"Okay so, marvel or DC?" 

 

"Marvel, duh." He scoffed, as if the question was that easily answered. 

 

"Really? I'm more DC honestly." I admitted with a shrug, brushing my fringe from my eyes I still wondered if he thought was dumb. 

 

"Are you kidding me? Marvel has Spider-Man, Deadpool not to mention Iron Man." He replied, staring at me as if I was insane (part of me wondered the same sometimes). "Plus DC movies suck." 

 

"But DC has Batman." I pointed out but I couldn't help from laughing at the latter of his statement as I nodded. "True about the movies though."

 

We fell into silence after that, or maybe we didn't. For all I knew he said something and I didn't even notice for I was too busy trying to figure out how this happened. 

 

Walking along the beaten up path around the edge of the park, we kicked at the stones that rolled before our feet and talked about things that _didn't_ matter. He never once mentioned the fact my hands were _shaky_ and the _bruises_ that littered my arms when I pushed up my sleeves. We didn't talk about the fact the _bags_ under his eyes made him look as if he was half way _dead_ or the fact he smelled like _drink_ and _regret_. 

 

We didn't talk about the things I wondered about him, or about the things I wondered if he noticed about me. We just _talked_. 

 

We wandered listlessly, talking about silly things that would never come up again until the sun started dipping low in the sky and I began cursing the world for spinning too _quick_ and making every moment run away from me so _fast_. Neither of us really said a word on it when we started walking out of the old park. Scuffed shoes toeing at the tarmac as we turned at corners and walk along streets making our way to the road I first saw him as if it was nothing at all. 

 

"Parents are gonna be pissed you never called, aren't they?" He asked me suddenly as we walked by old houses with pathetic potted plants as a stand in garden. 

 

I simple shrugged my shoulders despite the fact the answer was an honest yes. My mother will have been worried, if my father was home he'll tell me I'm ungrateful for skipping the hot meal that my mother made for us like she cared anyways. 

 

"Maybe." I responded with instead, letting my shoulders shrug once again like a puppets being jerked by the puppeteers strings. "Who cares."

 

"You do." He replied, as if the question wasn't rhetorical as we came to a stop at the corner that turned to my house which really wasn't a _home_. 

 

I wanted to snap back, say I didn't care and he was stupid to think I did, act like he didn't touch a nerve. But I didn't, because I did care and it annoyed me how he knew without me ever uttering a word. So I just shoved my hands in my pockets, looking to my feet like staring at the ground for long enough would make it open up underneath me and pull me down to somewhere I can hide. 

 

"If he asks just say you were studying." He said suddenly, causing me to wonder why he cared to give me an excuse and if it was just coincidental that it would be one I'd make up myself. 

 

"Make it science," he said and I looked up just in time to see him lick his lips in the same way Luke does when he tells his mum that he didn't know where Jacks old jacket was when it was in his locker. "Probably make the old man happier, yeah?"

 

"Yeah." I answered finally as he turned away, like his last words were his way of saying goodbye. "Science."

 

I watched him for a moment as he looked both ways before his head turned back to me with a smirk, feet stepping off the curb with his back turned to the traffic I knew was about to start up again. 

 

"See ya round, Michael."

 

For a second, I was scared. Because it felt like the goodbye I swore I heard the night he ran out - and for a second I thought it would happen again. 

 

But he just ran across the road, and he didn't stop running when his feet his the curb and he made his way down the street I see him across the nights he appears outside my very door. And as I stood there, I wasn't sure if I was smiling as he ran away, becoming nothing more than a speck of colour against the grey. 

 

_"See you then."_

 


	31. 2.7

High school: also known as hell on earth, gossip central and the place good kids go to become complete and utter douche bags by the age of sixteen. 

 

Gossip is like the _clap_. It's nasty, spreads by stupidity and really is not something you want in your life. But it spreads. It spreads and infects everyone until no one has secrets anymore because they're all spilled to your best friend, who passes it on by accident to another friend who always runs their mouth, who'll tell the whole football team and before the end of fifth period everyone knows about that one time you got off with that weird kid in your English Lit class in the bathroom stall with the iffy lock that smells like teenage desperation, sex and regret. 

 

In period one Luke Hemmings fidgeted anxiously in his seat during a presentation on business ownership. In second period I saw his name written on a note by Effy Smith, the bitchy girl that sat next to me in history. During third I saw Ashton Irwin rolling his eyes at the girl who walked by his side to his free period outside my classroom window. It took until fourth period when I heard Blake Dallas whispering the name of my best friend and the boy who makes his heart flutter in the same sentence that the dread that grew in my stomach made sense. 

 

It was lunch when I found Luke sitting in the little crook against the stairs to business studies, _oh so bright_ blue eyes filled with _tears_ that made my heart sink. Sitting by his side I didn't say a word about what I heard and the hazel eyed boy that probably knows what's going on by now. Instead I wrapped my arm around the boy who refused to talk to me for a day the year before because I said that Billie Joe Armstrong will never have hair as great as Gerard Way. 

 

In the years I've known Luke Hemmings only _once_ did I ever see him cry. 

 

We were fifteen, sitting outside on the football pitch of the school we knew even then we couldn't wait to leave. He sat there, all _long legs_ and _awkward frame_ with a varsity jacket around his shoulders we both knew wasn't his. I didn't expect it first and I don't think he did either. But suddenly the pale tear tracks covered his cheeks and his shoulder started to shake. He clung onto me at six thirty pm on a July night when the sun was dipping down and winter wouldn't leave us alone. He sobbed into my shoulder and clung to the old denim jacket I still wear to this day, trying to speak beyond the thickness of his throat that made every word cut off before they'd even began. 

 

But I just hugged him. I hugged him and we just sat there on the football pitch in the school that's gates had closed hours before as he tried to find the way to tell me he missed the boy that once wore the jacket over his shoulders so much that it made his heart ache when his mother said she was proud of him, and when he looked in the mirror every morning he wished he didn't see his eyes or his blonde hair or the smile his mother always said they shared. But he didn't say a word that day, and I never tried to make him. 

 

"I feel like such a fucking idiot." He whispered as we sat with our backs to the wall well into sixth period. 

 

"You're not an idiot." I told him, head resting on his as we stared at the wall before us, blank white with little lines and scrapes from bags brushing against it throughout the years. "People suck."

 

"He knows, doesn't he?"

 

And as we sat there, teachers voices muffled trough the walls with his head on my shoulder I wished I could console the boy by my side and tell him the one he swore he loved didn't know at all how he felt. 

 

_"Im so sorry."_

 


	32. 2.8

The day Ashton Irwin sat down with us at lunch was the day I started wondering if my father hit me hard enough to cause brain damage. 

 

It wasn't even a week after the whispering had started and the whole school knew. It wasn't a shock Luke liked a guy, it was more the fact he liked the most _unattainable_ gay in the district. It wasn't exactly that Ashton was unattainable so to say, he just didn't date. In fact a lot of people thought he was something along the lines of asexual until Calum showed up and they all thought it was a one time thing. That he was just an _exception_. And, well, Calum seems to have that ability. 

The overall feeling of self loathing and embarrassment seemed to have simmered down. At least now Luke wasn't on the urge of _tears_ anyone looked his way, we even managed to sit in the cafeteria again. 

 

It was _bittersweet_ , he had told me a few days before as we sat on the school pitches again, watching birds fly around and idiots chase after a ball. 

 

I asked what he meant, head on my arms as I looked at him sitting there in the sun light. 

 

But his broad shoulders shrugged, chin resting on his knees, arms around them like he could become a human ball if he tried hard enough. 

 

"I don't have to hide it now, yeno? But it sucks, because when I did at least I had this stupid hope that he could feel the same."

 

We didn't talk about it after that point. Instead we poured our time into the song we were writing for music (which had promptly turned itself into a song about heart break and unrequited love rather than a normal love song) and the conversation was over. And it was strange because for the first time in maybe two years I didn't hear about Ashton Irwin and his _oh so bright_ hazel eyes and how _Angels_ couldn't exist if something as _perfect_ as him lived on this very earth. 

 

It was like every other day at lunch. We sat down at the same round table with four seats, across from one another instead of side by side. He slid over a sandwich identical to his own (chicken, since it was a Monday and that's a Monday thing in the Hemmings family) and we sat there. I had one earphone in as he talked about pointless things like how he hated his maths teacher and how if they had to climb a rope in PE like they did in America he may die. 

 

And then it happened, and it was _anticlimactic_. 

 

"Uh, hey, Luke right? Can I - um - can I sit here?"

 

The only interesting thing that happened was the fact Luke almost fell off his chair. 

 

There was a solid three seconds of total silence. Luke was sitting there, gripping onto his chair and the table and staring wide eyed like he just someone get shot. It was kind of amusing really. 

 

And there he stood. Straightened hair with a fringe I've heard about too much in the past few years, a clear container held in his hands against his abdomen and a smile that made his eyes twinkle and dimples peek out from his cheeks. If there was one thing Luke got right about Ashton Irwin, wasn't _hot_ – he was _beautiful_.

 

And it made my stomach churn. 

 

Luke just nodded, wordlessly. Wide eyes staring as the beautiful boy he's been pining for two years above pulled out a chair and sat down right between us. Seemingly unaffected or maybe just unaware of my idiot friends staring, the seventeen year old just opened the container he held his lunch in, setting it into top of the lid before finally looking up. 

 

At this point we were both staring. 

 

"What?" He asked slowly, eyebrows furrowed with a look matching that strongly of a puppy. "Do you want me to leave because I-"

 

"No!"

 

And then it was Ashton and I that were staring. 

 

Luke's cheeks were bright red, eyes wide and I swore I almost heard a whimper behind closed lips. He sat there, frozen, and for a second I pitied him. 

 

"No- I mean no like, uh- like I meant in the way that-."

 

But the seventeenth year old with his pretty smiles and _oh so bright_ hazel eyes just shrugged his shoulders, the corners of his lips turned up as he looked at the stuttering blond and part of me wondered if maybe, he wasn't as much of an idiot

as I thought. 

 

__ "Alright, I'll stay." _ _

 


	33. 2.9

Keeping things from Luke was _easy_. 

 

He was oblivious to everything outside his little world of hair products, Ashton Irwin and guitar riffs that make his mother smile so fond it makes my stomach churn. It was easy to hide the way my stomach tied itself in knots when he said something that poked a nerve, easy to hide the little bruises that kissed my skin and easy to hide the fact _i couldn't give a damn_ about the beautiful Ashton Irwin that he's so infatuated with that it makes me feel ill. 

 

Everything was just easy with Luke. Because Luke didn't get _mad_ when I fell asleep on his shoulder during a presentation because it's been days since my last full nights rest. Luke doesn't _question_ it when I have no money to buy lunch most days of the week and just passes me the sandwich wrapped up in cling film he told his mum he needed for brain food during studying. Luke was easy, simple, dependable to always _nod_ and _chat_ away like nothing's going on. 

 

The night Luke yelled at me was a first, and consequently a last since the pair of us never dared speak of it after. 

 

Until he decided to ruined the calm by bringing it up again that is. 

 

It was after school. The halls were quiet and lonely, nothing more than a _ghost town_ compared to the hustle and bustle of students tearing down then throughout the day. Our footsteps tapped along, echoing as they bounced off the walls, dancing along the hall before us as we walked from the music room we spent the past two hours in trying to finish off a song not due till the years end. 

 

"Hey, Mikey?"

 

I hummed, a slight sound of a response though I didn't say a word. 

 

"Youre not like, hanging out with that Calum guy, right?"

 

The question caught me off guard. I almost tripped over my feet and I swore my heart slammed against my chest hard enough to crack a rib. 

 

I've never had a problem lying to Luke. I've never had an issue with erasing the truth and writing him a pretty little lie in its place. But the way my heart hammered and I swore my cheeks were alight in the kind of colour that made my skin look _burnt_ and _blotchy_ made panic rise within, burning my skin as it courses through the veins running right under the surface. 

 

It felt like one of those moments that you couldn't describe with words. Because every thought had an image paired and I couldn't help the foul taste lingering in my mouth. 

 

 _No way, Luke._  I saw lips quirk into a smile, 'Calum Thomas hood,' he told me as we walked, feet kicking up dirt as the sun began to sink over the tree tops, 'what about you?'. 

 

 _Why would I?_  He scoffed, a wonderful sound echoing from his throat as his dark eyes watched the nervous fidget of my hands, 'it's just ditching, what are you, scared, Clifford?'

 

 _What made you think that?_ His eyes were dark, almost black and I wondered where the light went as he shrugged his shoulders, voice horse and low, 'just a party, was pretty shit.'

 

It was like I was sitting in a movie theater. Watching his features blown up on the big screen. Whispering lies to the boy by my side. 

 

_"Of course not."_

 


	34. 3.0

Things were changing, and I didn't know how to feel about it. 

 

A chill began setting in, temperature dropping just that bit as a whisper of the seasons changing when the heat waves rolling under the summer sun became less as fall crept in. It wasn't like how it was in other countries. I didn't bundle up in a coat as I walk to school, didn't have temptation to slip on a pair of old gloves that kept my fingers from going numb. It was warm, but not like it was in the mid of December when even laying in my room became unbearable. 

 

But, it wasn't _just_ the seasons that were changing. 

 

Right before my eyes everything seemed to be changing; whether _blossoming_ or _withering_ , I couldn't tell. But it was changing, and I didn't notice it until it was twelve thirty am and I heard scratches at my window that didn't come as a surprise.

 

It had started to become _normal_ , hearing the scratch of little rocks thrown at my window the nights I wasn't waiting for him outside. It was _mundane_ how I'd run down the steps as quiet as I could to slip out the door. Almost _ordinary_ to see him standing on the curb, waiting for me like he used to for the boy with _oh so bright_ hazel eyes two years above. 

 

But it _wasn't_ normal, but it never stopped me answering every call. 

 

Hands dug into hoodie pockets I found myself standing in my socks, one am with my hair a mess and eyes begging to be shut. But I didn't care for how much of a mess I looked, it wasn't the important part right now. 

 

"Going somewhere?" 

 

He was dressed like he does those nights he showed up at three am, jeans with jagged rips, singlet of a band from years ago and bags under his eyes darker than ever with lips pressed to a frown. It made me want to step closer, to run my thumb along the lines between his eyes until they rubbed away. To wrap my arms around him before a breeze came and pushed him to the ground. But I never did. 

 

"Yeah, so get ready."

 

His words startled me, causing my thoughts to stutter to a halt as they banged into one another. His lips were quirked up, but there was something _uneasy_ in his eyes, a _wild_ and _feral_ look that made me wonder if there was something I didn't know about or if there was something he was _craving_ to calm his jittery hands that always fidgeted by his sides. 

 

"Wait- what?"

 

"I said get ready, we're going to a party." He said, as if it was obvious. But his lips pulled into a smirk that made my stomach tie in knots as he stood there, hands in his pockets, completely in control. 

 

"It's midnight." I deadpanned, shaking my head as excuses popped to mind so fast I couldn't pick one to use. "I- I have school in the morning, I'm not a party person, really I'm-"

 

"So?" He asked, but it wasn't a question because he stepped closer and the smirk on his lips stayed. "Skip it, I'll be there. You don't like it we'll ditch. Come on, what's wrong with trying?"

 

His tongue darted out, licking over dry lips. I felt like an _animal_ cornered, all shaky hands and wide eyes, heart hammering so loud it was deafening. And he just stood there, dark eyes staring into mine, so close I could practically taste the liquor on his lips and feel his breath against mine. 

 

He cornered me, like a _lion_ stalking his _pray_ , and I didn't even fight it. 

 

_"Let me get ready."_

 


	35. ( ♡ )

_**"being noticed can be a burden. jesus got himself crucified because he got himself noticed."** _

 

_**-bob dylan** _

 


	36. 3.1

I was a _kid_ , and I think in that moment I realised that. 

 

His arm was around my shoulder, with fingertips running along my arm; I wondered if it was because standing there by his side, waiting for the door to open, he felt me _shaking_ like a leaf. I wanted to run away. Heart slamming against my chest everything tasted like _panic_ and I couldn't seem to calm myself down when I saw his knuckles rap so casually against the flat door in the side of town my mum bitches about over the phone and my father warned me to stay from. 

 

"Just tell me if you wanna go, okay?" I heard him whisper as footsteps became louder on the other side of the hollow wood. "Just try it."

 

 _Try what?_ The words were heavy on my tongue, _unasked_ , to be unanswered. 

 

That was, until the realisation hit along with the wave of smoke to my senses when the door opened. 

 

It was a man standing on the other side, who grinned at the sight of Calum. Red rimmed eyes glittering but dull, lips curved into a smile that looked so spaced, out of it and _dreamy_. "Cal," he said, fingers drifting through the side streak of blonde in otherwise dark hair as he leaned against the wooden door frame, "you came."

 

And when his eyes rested on me, dazed brown and lips curved to a _smirk_ : I felt my stomach _drop_ to my feet. 

 

"And you brought your little friend."

 

I could have ran. Followed that primal instinct within me that was screaming _flight_ over _fight_. But I shoved my shaky hands into pockets of ripped jeans I only wore when I gave a damn and let the boy by my side guide me in. I should have ran, but I was _helpless_ with his arm so loose around my shoulders and the heat rolling off his body pressed to my side. 

 

The apartment was filled with _haze_. Smoke drifted around everyone's heads, only four or five others sitting around on the floor or the mismatch couches. Smoke bubbled past their lips with every breath, low music playing somewhere in the back that made them smile, heads tilted back with little rings floating over dazed heads.

 

The smell was _intoxicating_. And I _hated_ it. 

 

I felt small, young and helpless. Pressed to his side like there was something in the action that could hide me away, fingers curled around my shoulder with smoke pouring past his lips: I never spoke a word. But I listened. I listened to the low and static like music in the background, to every inhale and exhale, to every spoken word. 

 

"This him then?"

 

He nodded, gripping my shoulder that bit tighter like the blunt pinched between his fingers he seemed to religiously press to his lips. 

 

"First time?"

 

There was another now, messy brown hair, dark eyes that stared from where he sat with a smile on his lips, watching as I avoided his gaze. 

 

"Another night."

 

I heard the shift in his voice, felt the tightening of his arm around my shoulders and I couldn't help myself when my hand reached his knee, just _resting_ , without a thought. 

 

He looked at me finally, eyes red rimmed with that glassy look I always wondered what from. He stared, no words passed his lips, not even when one asked my name. He just stared, and suddenly, everything felt unbalanced, unsteady - _delicate_.

 

"Michael."

 

I blinked, turning away as he lifted the blunt to his lips. 

 

_"My names Michael."_

 


	37. 3.2

There names were _Jack_ and _Alex_ , the others just their friends. Everyone got a spliff rolled as a welcome back present at the beginning of every party. LSD came in the form of smiley face tabs and Ecstasy was best in liquid form. They were _stoners_ , and they were _nice_. 

 

It took roughly two blunts and a bottle of beer for Calum to loosen up each night. I realised that after the third, the night when after laughing so hard he ended up whispering against my hair, hand drifting along my arm while murmuring words not quite there and things I couldn't catch. He'd smile, dazed and _sky high_ while telling me about the times he felt _tastes_ and how the first time he kissed a boy high tasted like _purple_ and _pink_ all mixed together like a smoothie. 

 

It took until the fourth night he brought me through their door, sat down on the old red couch he seemed to have claimed as his own with cigarette burns and mismatch flat pillows, for me to finally get a taste of what make his eyes _cloud over_ and lips form into a _smile._

 

"What age are you, Mikey?" It was Alex asking, the one who always smiled and liked popping pills at the start of the night and every twenty minutes after that. 

 

"M' sixteen." I murmured, head against Calums shoulder as fingers grazed through my hair. He liked to play with it when he was burning on his _third_ and the _second_ bottle touched his lips.

 

"Hm, I was sixteen when I got high for the first time." Alex replied, dopey smile and pretty eyes as he took a hit, eyes fluttering shut with a nostalgic smile. "Was pretty cool."

 

"Wanna try?"

 

My stomach was in knots at the question. Alex just sat there, pupils blown and leaning forward, elbows on his knees, _watching_. 

 

"Yeah, you should. Sure Cal will let you," Jack was sitting on the floor, one knee to his chest as he looked at the boy by my side. I wanted to say the glint in his eyes was challenging, but it could have just been the light catching off the flame that lit before his eyes from Vic to the side, running his fingers over the flame. "Just ask him nice, pet."

 

I expected him to snap. For the boy who's side I leaned into to tell his friends to _fuck off_ like he did only a few nights prior when only a can of beer was about to be pressed to my hand. But he shrugged, fingers still running through my hair as casually as they had been all night. 

 

"Do you?"

 

His question had me stunned. Did I? Alex was grinning from where he sat, jack staring like he was trying to decode the moment. I looked at Calum, searching for an answer. But he was just sitting there, looking down at me with that damn unwavering gaze as my mouth ran dry and I didn't know what to say. 

 

But I _nodded_ , and I guessed that was enough. 

 

Somewhere from the corner of my eyes I could see jack moving, probably to grab one of the blunts ready to be lit as Calum kept his eyes on me, like he was waiting for a change in heart before passing me the one that was pressed to his lips moments before. 

 

"Just breath in, be easy about it and hold it there for a little." He told me and it took a moment for me to actually make a move to take the small roll of nothing more but paper and weed pinched between his fingers. 

 

For a moment I was thrown back to when I was fourteen. Luke and I huddled outside his back door, one of his mothers cigarettes passed from hand to hand, determined to try and try again until we stopped coughing the moment it pressed to our lips. And for the first time, I felt grateful for that idiotic competition I only just won. 

 

It was strange. From the moment it was pressed to my lips, even passed the moment when smoke fluttered past them like _snow flakes_ falling in _reverse_. I could still feel his fingers in my hair, still feel eyes boring holes into my skin, but my fingers tingled and I didn't mind. 

 

"You like it?" His words were hushed, like he was whispering a secret for just us to hear as the smell of smoke grew and I realised it tumbled from past my lips, blunt between my fingers burning lower than it should. 

 

But it was good, and I didn't know if that was a good thing in itself.

 

_"Yeah, it's good."_

 


	38. 3.3

It all happened in the two weeks that I was free for winter break. The two weeks my parents left me home alone to study. The two weeks that are the clearest memories Id have for the next _month_. 

 

The first day of being alone, I didn't tell anyone. But before I knew it I had a certain blond rapping at my door, all _flushed cheeks_ and _heavy breathing_ like he ran all the way from my house to his. 

 

My hair was a mess and my eyes were dull. I felt tired and not there at all, craving sleep like I would soon know the long haired guy that always had his head hung in the corner of jack and Alex's craved a needle in his arm. For a second I thought he wasn't really there when I saw Luke. I was tempted to say I was seeing things, but he grabbed my arm and looked at me with pleading eyes that made me realise he was so very real. 

 

That day was one that could be remembered. Sitting on the floor of my room with Luke looking at me with nervous eyes and shaky hands. For a few minutes he beat around the bush, asking how I was, if I had plans for the winter break, things I didn't reply to as I waited for him to explain why he was there. 

 

"Can I kiss you?" He blurted out suddenly amidst telling me of how his brother Ben was taking him camping for a couple days before his birthday. 

 

"What?" I wasn't mad, more shocked. But the blue eyes boy seemed to panic as he moved to sit on his knees, looking at me desperately. 

 

"Okay so Ashton wants to hang out on my birthday and it got me thinking why he would do that - like I know I told him its my sixteenth and I wasn't doing anything but still - and then I started thinking about why he's even talking to me and Mikey I really like him and maybe he likes me and maybe that's why he wants to hang out and I'm scared because one of these days I may kiss him and I've never kissed anyone and I-"

 

"Okay."

 

And he _stopped_. 

 

And he _stared_. 

 

And before I knew it, I was sitting thigh to thigh with Luke Hemmings. Hands awkwardly on his hips, his even more stiff against my shoulders. We were close, too close for two friends. I could practically taste his breath on my lips. (Tea and gum, sweet and minty, a little like him most days.)

 

"So I just-"

 

"Luke."

 

He looked at me. His eyes were wide and it hit me he was _scared_. His hands were so stiff because his shoulders were shaking. He was pale as a sheet of paper and I swore he was going to keel over. 

 

So I moved my hand to his jaw, and I tried to think it _wasn't_ him. And I knew when his eyes fluttered closed and his breathing slowed, he wasn't thinking of me either. There was a few moments of silence, of just edging closer and making sure not to bump noses before his lips were pressed to mine and it felt _fine_. 

 

I acted like the blond hair that I ended up curling my fingers in was brown, lanky and forever a mess instead of perfectly styled. I pretended that the hands that skirted along my sides, along my thigh were slimmer, slender and tanned knowing exactly what they were doing. I made myself believe that the boy who's tongue ended up against my own was a nineteen year old _higher_ than my _test scores._

 

It took until his phone rang for us to both realise that we were us, not who the other wished. Cheeks flushed and wandering hands on my lap as the blond with messy hair and red lips hurriedly whispered to his mother on the other line, I wondered for a moment if I would regret my first kiss. 

 

But when Luke turned to me and grinned, that awkward little smile he always has when he hung up the phone, I figured there's nothing bad with kissing your best friend. 

 

_"Wanna try again?"_

 


	39. 3.4

The first time was _faded_. The memory was like a photograph from years ago, edges _frayed_ and picture _rubbed down_ so its occupants look like nothing but _ghosts_ standing before scenery that no longer exists. But it's still there, though foggy and faded, it's there. 

 

It had gotten to the point I was almost comfortable around them all. Around his friends that fidgeted with foggy eyes and smoke staining the air in their presences. I started to almost enjoy my time with them, leaning against Calum's side as he mumbled things into my hair that made no sense and everything felt so _foggy_ and _calm_. It was nice. Nice to forget everything. It was _addictive_ even. 

 

Each night was spent laughing, talking though none of us would ever remember what about. It started off simple then, I never noticed, I didn't ask what I was given, I just took it. We were all just so _stoned_ and it felt so damn _good_. 

 

I couldn't remember the song playing when I lay there with my head in his lap, fingers in my hair as my own drifted through the smoke in the air, though I remember it was filled with static and the strum of a single guitar in a jagged melody that sounded strange and eerie. There was talking in the background, laughing from Alex with the smiley face tabs on his tongue and a steady beat of rhythmic tapping from Kellin who sat on the floor, Vic whispering by his side as Jack talked about things I didn't even try to care about. Everything felt so light, so _fluffy_ and I swore I was _floating_. It was nice, not to care, not to feel.

 

It was nice. 

 

I could remember knuckles against my skin. I could feel them brushing along the side of my face before fingertips, rough and calloused replaced them, running over my cheeks, my jaw, my _lips_. I never questioned it. My tongue felt heavy like led. So why use it?

 

He looked so _concentrated_. Brow furrowed, lips pursed, like he was thinking so hard about something my groggy mind couldn't even dare to think of. But his fingertips kept ghosting along my face, thumb catching on parted lips and I couldn't find it within me to question why. 

 

I don't remember if he told me to get up or if I did it of my own accord. I don't remember anything but laughing when I ended up sitting on his lap, head on his shoulder as Jack said something about toy boys or boy toys that I ignored. All I remember is a spliff to his lips and a hand curled around the back of my neck. I was like a little _doll_ , a _toy_ , but _I didn't care._

 

I didn't care when he pulled me closer. I didn't care that his grip almost hurt. I didn't care that everyone was staring.

 

I didn't care. 

 

 _Shotgunning_ , I figured out that's what it was later. 

 

It felt strange. It wasn't like with Luke, all awkward hands and timid actions. It was tight grips and forgetting to breathe. His grip on the back of my neck  _hurt_ , and the bite to my lip  _stung_ , but it felt so  _different_ and _demanding_  and I liked it. 

 

There was smoke when we parted and I remember laughing and I don't even know why. We were laughing, lips brushing and his grip never loosened. His lips were _red_ and his eyes _sparkled_ like pretty little gems. It was _shiny_ and _pretty_ and _perfect._

 

It took until the next morning for me to notice the bruises on the back of my neck. 

 

_"You taste like cotton candy."_

 


	40. 3.5

It was all about the _party_. 

 

After a while we stopped just meeting at Jack and Alex's. Calum would show up a little earlier, waiting outside my door knowing my parents weren't home. He'd grab me by the hips when I locked the door and tell me how I looked _so good_. And in return I would ignore the liquor on his lips and the cigarette pinched between his fingers that left ash on my clothes. 

 

The first time was the one I remembered the most, though, it was a given that I didn't even remember much of it at all. He had grabbed me by the hips when I turned to lock the door, whispered in my ear and made me wonder if he was out of it already. But I didn't ask, I didn't question his actions aloud. I just let him do whatever he wanted, _whenever_ he wanted, and maybe that was my first mistake.

 

He said we were doing something _different_  tonight. I remember asking _why_ , but all I got for a reply was a glint in his eyes with nothing verbalised. I never made a sound on how he was becoming that image from the beginning, fading away and distancing himself though _so clearly_ I could feel his hands on my hips and his breath hot against my lips when he pulled me closer and told me  _dont worry_. But I did worry, I worried because I had no idea where we were when the night began, I worried because we were surrounded by haze and strangers, I worried because of the look in his eyes. 

 

There were people, so many people. Dancing, talking, laughing, shooting up something I couldn't see from the corner of my eyes. Light skinned, dark skinned, everything in between no one was the same til you caught a look in their eyes. It was such a familiar look. _Feral_ and _wild,_ it didn't take long for me to understand why. 

 

There was music, so heavy I felt it in my chest as the beat vibrated against the floor under my feet. There were people laughing, dancing in the dim light and everything felt _hot_ and _heavy_. I remember saying I didn't want to dance,  _it's not really my thing_. But he grabbed me by the hips and told me to _loosen up_ , chest to chest, I could almost taste the mix of smoke and drink on his lips. 

 

I can't remember when a drink was passed to my hand. But I remember why I took it. It was because my chest felt tight and he looked at me like it wasn't a big deal. So I drank it. I never asked what it was, never questioned it, a bad habit that ended up giving me a foggy mind by the end of the night. 

 

For a while that seemed to be enough. Dancing in the haze of smoke and dim lights, wandering hands and hushed words against parted lips. I liked that moment more than I would have ever admitted, though his hands sunk lower and there were too many people around, his breath was hot against my lips and that was enough to make me decide that I didn't quite care.

 

But we ended up outside after a while, surrounded by strangers that greeted him like an old friend I wondered where the stoners that I had become used to where that night. They could have been faceless for all I knew, as they were only shadows in my mind. Trying to remember is like watching what goes on around you when you're half asleep, eyes almost closed and mind foggy, senses dulled _nothing_ makes much sense. 

 

I stood with my head against his shoulder when they talked, whatever the conversation was is now long lost to me. I remember something they said peeked my interest, the mention of a name that caused his arm around my waist to tense. They said it again, a look in the eyes of whoever he was speaking to as Calum's jaw just tensed. I think I remember setting my hand over his, and I'm not sure if when he looked at me he had this look I had never seen before – or the haze of the rest of that night had made that memory for me.

 

I'm not sure how we ended up back inside and I'm not sure how I ended up with two little pills in my hand. They were tiny things, pale blue and looking so simple in the palm of my hand. He didn't make me take them. He didn't force them down my throat.

 

He just gave me that smile and I couldn't help myself from going along with whatever he wanted. 

 

_"Bottoms up."_

 


	41. 3.6

Everything after that was a _blur_. 

 

It was _shotgunning_ while sitting on the roof of Vic's car. It was cotton _candy pink_ hair and a _blond streak_ one day on a whim. It was pretty little pills, smiley face tabs and drinks that someone else mixed. It was strong, it was hazy, it was _addicting_. 

 

Whenever winter break ended I didn't go back to school. At least, I barely went in and if I did Calum would show up at some point throughout the day and I'd never make it to my last class. My hair was pink, ' _like cotton candy_ ' he told me and I smelled like weed on a good day. But I didn't care, and that was the best part. Because even when they stared, even when teachers yelled or my parents muttered about a smell I didn't care at all. 

 

It was a _happy haze_. The nights that we weren't at a party we would be with Alexs and Jack, and everyone else that I had began wondering if I could consider as friends. It was a time when I was almost happy for the fact I could never sleep, as I spent nights watching the sun come up with my head on his chest, staring up at the stars like some movie cliché. It was a cliché, one hundred percent, how a good student got swept away by a boy with dark eyes and cigarette smoke pouring past his lips. But it was a cliché that I was happy to have found myself caught up in.

 

“You know, most of the time when a meteor enters the earths atmosphere it burns up before it'll ever hit the ground?”

 

I had gotten used to his random comments in the middle of the night, right when it's darkest before dawn starts to appear when he had a cigarette between his lips rather than a blunt. I just shrugged my shoulders, fingers drifting along his stomach making shapes with Vic's laughter in the background. “Yeah, teacher mentioned it once. What are you thinking about?”

 

He didn't look at me when I lifted my head from his chest, he didn't even acknowledge me as he stared up at the sky. Sometimes I forgot he was unhappy. I got fooled by his laughter and the smiles he had saved just for when a cigarette is pressed to his lips and Alex's is rambling on again. Sometimes I got a glimpse of the eyes of the boy that said a cliché _goodbye_ before he ran out before the head lights of the car thats skid marks still linger on the road before my house.

 

“It's like they're dying, and it's their last show. A knock out way to say goodbye, don't you think?”

 

When he looked at me his eyes were _wide_ , pupils blown despite the fact he hadn't taken a hit in a while. It almost made me stop, made me want to ask if he was okay as he stared at me with those dark eyes that seemed to have no _end_ or _beginning_ between pupil and iris. But I didn't, because my tongue felt heavy like lead and it could lead to a conversation that I don't think I would be able to handle.

 

“They're pretty, I guess. Beautiful, even.” _Like you_ , I was tempted to add, _dying in the most beautiful way._

 

After that he fell silence, staring up at the sky as I set my head on his chest again and tried to will away the sickness that was gripping me by the throat. The radio was still playing, soft music that couldn't calm my thoughts or mind. Vic was laughing, Alex joining in and I knew the others would be rolling their eyes and smiling. They were completely oblivious to the idiots laying behind the back of the car staring up at the sky with the headlights cut out.

 

“Do you think I'll beautiful like that when I die?”

 

I wasn't sure if he was looking for an answer, so maybe that's why for sometime I didn't give him one. I just listened to the steady thump of his heart and wished I could will it to go on, to never end. I couldn't make myself look as him, gripping onto the leather jacket he always wore that smelled like cigarette smoke and mentos that he flipped into the air and caught in his mouth when we walked away from my school in broad day light.

 

“ _I think you're beautiful alive.”_

 


	42. 3.7

The parties were never all that fun. From what I remember, there was always a vile taste in my mouth and the people around never knew when to take a step _back_. After a while, whenever he suggested it I would try to convince him otherwise, acting like it wasn't that big a deal but wouldn't it be a better idea to _take it easy_ for once? To just hang out with the others instead of running off to parties with people that it was obvious couldn't be trusted.

 

I always wanted to ask why we wouldn't just sneak into the old park we always passed and lay in the grass, just stare at the sky and _talk_ instead of getting _high_ and making mistakes we won't remember. But I could never get the words out when he looked at me, _waiting_ for what I had to say. I couldn't say it for fear that he would shoot it down so harshly.

 

And I guess that's what fucked me over in the end. 

 

I wish I remembered everything more clearly. But I'm grateful I don't at the same time. Part of me wants to remember the nights we lay in the back of his best friends truck, tripping on whatever someone gave him a few hours before with wandering hands and lips pressed against flushed skin because everything was _hazy_ and _light_ and touching him felt _steady_ and _clear_. But I'm happy I don't remember the daze of hazy eyes and the feeling bubbling in my stomach that made my fingertips tingle and my head fuzzy in the best way. 

 

But most of all, I wish I didn't remember coming _down_ from it all. Waking up without any real memory, alone with heavy shoulders I wished those mornings would go away. I wished I could grab him by the hand and leave, run off somewhere to get high all day and care about nothing. Because I began craving it. A month in and all I wanted was a hit and a harsh kiss to the lips as long as there'd be smoke pouring past them or pretty pills pressed to his tongue. 

 

He wasn't that gentle, and he wasn't always sweet. I never thought he was. But he was worse after disappearing with the guys that always brought up that one girl, who's name always ran from my foggy mind. Only to come back with sleeves tugged down and a glaze to his eyes that made him seem even less alive. I didn't realise until after that, the _poison_ that had been coursing through _his_ veins had got into _mine_. 

 

I should have realised something was wrong. I should have noticed something wasn't right. But I didn't, I was too high, to spaced to come back down to earth to realise what the fuck I had gotten myself into. But maybe I just ended up getting too used to it to remember it was wrong. 

 

His grip started to hurt when he grabbed me after that point. There were bruises on my hips and it took a while for me to realise why. My back against the wall, I couldn't move if I tried - _when_ I tried. Everything was fast, rough - _too rough_ and I was _helpless_. Hands pressed to his chest, I didn't know if each bite to my skin hurt more than I liked it. I couldn't tell. _I didn't want to._

 

I don't remember trying to push him off. I don't remember how I got there, I didn't even know where there was at that point. I don't know if I said something, I don't know what happened to make Jack and Alex come into the bedroom upstairs that I had never seen before.

 

But I remember him being pulled away by the neck of his shirt, and I remember the way Jack grabbed him by the collar and yelled. But I remember being pulled to Alex's chest and I remember how he kept asking if I was _okay_ , though I couldn't tell what was wrong with a haze over my mind and belt _undone_.

 

Though I remembered the heavy beat of my heart, I'm not sure if the tears I swore I remembered falling down tanned cheeks were just my imagination. 

 

_"What did he do?"_

 


	43. 3.8

It turns out I was out of it for a _month_. 

 

It didn't feel like long, yet it somehow did. Time became unmeasurable for some reason, I couldn't wrap my mind around it. But when I finally came to, it was almost the end of _August_. 

 

Coming down was the worst of it. Stomach _churning_ and feeling _empty_ on the inside after _too much_ in _too short_ of a time period. I couldn't keep anything down, much less force something in. My mother looked at me like I was a ghost, my father cursed that I was a failure and I craved something that could make me forget the hash light in his eyes that screamed the bitter honesty of his words. 

 

I ditched school. Acted like I went when in reality I'd just wait until my parents weren't home to sneak back in and hide under my duvet and pray for sleep. I couldn't look in a mirror because I was too afraid I wouldn't even know who was looking back at me. It was _only_ a month, but nothing felt the same. 

 

For a long time I stayed like that. Hiding away in my room to try and bring back some sense to my life. I began writing down what I remembered, jotting events on pieces of paper that I tried to push into the right order as if finding that out would make things make sense again. I barely remembered anything,. First joint, first kiss, first party, then - _nothing_. Blanked, for what could have been a few days to two weeks. All I remembered was what happened only a few days prior where Alex held me so tight I swore I couldn't breathe and Jack wouldn't stop yelling.

 

I swore I heard sobbing in that memory, but it wasn't mine.

 

When I went back, after four weeks of fading in and out, pink hair, sullen eyes and teachers glares clinging to my skin it was like no matter where I looked, where I went, it was like someone knew everything and everyone knew something. I wanted to tear off my skin, to rip my flesh from my bones to try and shed the skin they stared at that clung to my body. I wanted to hide, to tear myself apart until no one could recognise who I was anymore. 

 

So, I did the only thing that I could think to do. 

 

_I hid._

 

I avoided the boy I knew as my only friend as if he were the plague personified and his _friend_ wherever I could. In the back of the library in between the shelves until the end of lunch. On the back stairs to HE that no one goes up anymore since the flood of the bathrooms. Behind the back of the canteen by the trash that smelled so bad that no one dared come near. 

 

The way I viewed it, there were only two more years left until I could get out. Until I could hit the ground running and never look back. I'll go to college, somewhere so far that no one will ever have known about the sixteen year old that covered bruises with his mothers make up and his faded pink hair dyed by a boy who could disappear as quick as he can appears before head lights. I could escape. Be someone else. But I knew the thought was nothing more than a dream which could never be. 

 

"So, what did he do?"

 

I was sitting under the stairs when he found me. I didn't look up, I didn't care to see his pitying eyes and that look of how he knows the feeling all too well. I just let him stand there, looking down at me with those _oh so bright_ hazel eyes that were probably never as pathetically fooled as mine. 

 

"Did he make you take something? Did he make you... Do something?"

 

"Why do you care?"

 

I wanted to sound angry. To glare up at him and tell him to _piss off_ , that it was none of his business. But I couldn't. I just sat there and stared at my lap and wondered why, Ashton Irwin of all people had to be pulled under by him as well. 

 

"Because I know he'll hurt you, and you're just a kid, Michael."

 

It was the pity that I couldn't take. Because I _was_ a kid, but that _wasn't_ what mattered. So, I grabbed my bag and prayed for lunch to end as I got up from where I sat on the floor, willing myself not to say a word while brushing past. 

 

But he reached out, he grabbed my arm and gave me that pleading look of pity that made my stomach churn. "Michael, he's a bad guy and you can't-"

 

I felt anger. Pure, hot, burning rage that made my chest feel tight and my stomach bubble and burn. I was angry at _Ashton_ , at the pretty boy two years above who acted like he knew. I was angry at the _Luke_ , too in love to notice I was falling apart. I was angry at _myself_ for giving myself to someone who'll kill me in the end. 

 

But most of all, I was angry because the boy that held my heart in his calloused hands was in the wrong and I was too weak to hate him for it. 

 

_"Mind your own business."_

 


	44. 3.9

For a while hiding worked. 

 

I spent a few weeks acting like I was invisible. Coping up notes from teachers themselves rather than peers, studying at any possible moment and throwing myself into extra credit work that I didn't really need. I _drowned_ myself in work until paper was lapping like _water_ over head and every time I tried to reach up, to push a hand out to try and drag myself to the surface, I would just feel the sting of paper slicing skin. But I did it, I forced myself into work, into anything to keep my mind off of one thing. 

 

I avoided Luke and Ashton as if they were hunters and I the pray. Truthfully, part of me wondered if that was the scenario I had caught myself up in. Constantly feeling cornered by the two teens who seemed to appear everywhere, like ghosts stepping from the shadows to intervene with my life. 

 

I tried to be content with being alone. The bruises on my hips began to fade. The ones on my wrists and neck long since turned green and yellow. It was like he was never there to begin with. Like my lips were never _bruised_ and eyes never _cloudy_ as I caught up with work and soon no one remembered the boy with the pink hair that had began to fade. It was like everything was normal again. 

 

But it wasn't. 

 

My father still yelled about anything and everything, my mother still downed sleeping pills like water and I still worked my ass off in hopes of getting away. But my father commented on my hair, my mother watched worriedly from the sides and now I longed for a boy who gave me a taste of both heaven and hell every night. It wasn't the same, and given that, it probably will never be again. 

 

"I miss you."

 

For three years Luke Robert Hemmings had been the only friend I knew. With his pretty blue eyes and awkward smile, lips quirking before a smile would come to them like he needed to asses the situation to know if the action was okay. He was _bubble gum_ and _sunshine_ with his broken heart that he pieced together with glitter glue and stitched up with hopes and dreams he refuses to ever let go. He was my opposite, but that's why we fit. Because when I couldn't move without wincing he made me forget my pain with his silly antics, he made me smile after my father made me cry and everything felt simple with the blonde in my complicated life. 

 

He was what I was missing. 

 

I couldn't help but feel awkward and shy, feet pigeon toed and binder to my chest. I didn't want to look up from my feet and the tuffs of grass below them, I couldn't. I couldn't just encase he sat there with his stupidly blue eyes and the boy two years above staring at me like I was _mad_. 

 

I half expected him just not to reply. And standing there, time running on, it seemed more likely that he would. 

 

I couldn't blame him, because he was my only friend and I forgot that I was his. I ran off with a boy I didn't know, swearing I knew him like the back of my hand. I ignored his calls, his messages, his warning. I just left him. 

 

Though standing there and admitting I had done wrong. Telling myself that I shouldn't have done what I did. That it was stupid, dumb and wrong. I didn't regret it. Because I felt something with his hands on my hips, his lips at my neck and whispered words against my ear. 

 

I almost wondered if maybe, the only reason I was coming down, was because he was floated out of reach.

 

Distracted by myself, I almost didn't notice the blonde who's feet I started down to got up. I almost didn't notice his timid step forward. Almost. But what I did notice was how his arms wrapped around my waist and I clung to the back of his shirt. 

 

_"I missed you too, Mikey."_

 


	45. 4.0

Whenever I heard the tap at my window, I almost thought I was hearing things. 

 

My temple was aching, eyes tired and body sore from colliding with the floor only hours prior. Cold September night, bare feet on the floorboards in a room with a broken heater; I was sitting in front of the mirror when I heard it, prodding at the bruise beginning to form by my scalp and wondering how the hell I was going to hide this one. It was an accident, just a shove that went wrong because I had to trip over my damn feet again. Really, it was _my_ fault. 

 

When the second tap came I wondered what the hell he was doing.

 

I was tempted to just sit there, act like the light of my room wasn't shining through my window and I couldn't hear him below. But I knew better than that. Or maybe I didn't and the two weeks I had spent hiding behind the bins and between the shelves in the library had gotten to me. But then again, it was probably because I was too _weak_ to keep myself _away_.

 

Either way, I couldn't deny the fact that I felt the urge to answer his call. 

 

It all felt terribly _dramatic_ in such a _mundane_ way as I crept down the stairs, tugging on an old hoodie and unlocking the door. It felt stupid, like it was idiotic to care this much about something that would undoubtedly end up as nothing. There was a moment before I opened the door that I wondered if I should just stop, to just stand there until he leaves. But I knew I was too pathetic to let that happen. 

 

He wasn't drunk, and it was a surprise. Standing at the foot of the steps to my door, hands in his pockets, he didn't even seem high. He stood there with crystal clear eyes, staring at me like I was some kind of creature he was waiting to dissect. For a few minutes (realistically, it was probably just seconds) there was silence as I wondered what brought him here with a sober mind. 

 

"You know you don't have to deal with his crap, right?"

 

He was looking at me expressionless, monotone and I almost punched him then and there. I knew what he meant, jaw tightening I wanted nothing more than to ask why the hell a bruise on my head mattered right now. Why was my father more important than why he was here and what he wasn't saying? 

 

But I didn't ask, because doing what he _wants_ is what I've always done _best_. 

 

"My father isn't a bad man, Calum.” I told him, maybe just reminding myself, “He just wants the best."

 

"And you're not it?"

 

"No.. No, I'm not."

 

I didn't know what he was thinking, and truthfully, that almost scared me. His lips were set in a harsh line, eyebrows furrowed as if to say, ' _don't talk to me, I need to work this out – to figure it out alone.'_. But the problem was, I didn't know what he was thinking about. It could have been _anything_ , then again, it may have been _nothing_.

 

There was a feeling, it was _suffocating_ and _silent_ , slipping through the cracks of what _has_ been said, and what _hasn't._ It bore a stunning resemblance to carbon monoxide seeping through the floorboards in the dead of night.

 

My tongue felt like lead, _heavy_ and _vile_ with words that already escaped leaving a foul taste in my mouth to accompany those still stuck behind my teeth like gum. I just let the silence continue, maybe for a _moment_ , maybe even a _minute_ , though it felt like an _hour_ while waiting for something I realised may never come.

 

"You should go."

 

I could have said more. I could have let the excuses tumble past my lips like dominoes. ( _"I have school in the morning, I should get back to bed."_ or " _If my dad notices I'm not inside I'll be fucked."_ even " _I have an assignment due tomorrow, I need to finish it."_ ) But none came. Instead, I just tugged at the sleeves of the old hoodie I wore, eyes to the ground as I made my way to turn.

 

And he didn't stop me.

 

It was a moment that felt like it need _more_. Like there were things left unsaid, topics untouched and there was something that _wasn't quite enough._

 

But perhaps that's because my life is not a fairytale. Because I grasped the handle of a door rather than gripped his hand. Because I'm not a male Cinderella who's prince will sweep him off his feet. Because this isn't a moment from a coming of age love story where everyone knows what to say, using words that will be written, spoken and remembered throughout time.

 

Because I'm worse for wear, and I'm in love with nothing more than damaged goods.

 

_"Goodnight, Calum."_

 


	46. ( ♡ )

“ _ **There is an immeasurable distance between late and too late.”**_

 

_**-og mandino** _

 


	47. 4.1

It wasn't the first time it occurred to me that my memory was more than just a little _hazy_ , but it hit me that night when I sat with an aching jaw and a bright lit screen that caused my eyes to hurt in the darkness of my bedroom, that perhaps I was a little more _practical_ than I realised in that state.

 

It wasn't a matter of _should_ or _shouldn't_ when I pressed the call button. Nor was it the matter of whether or not he remembered the whole exchange as I for one did not. But, it was a matter of stay in this house or _escape_ even if just for a night. 

 

I have no idea how he even understood what I was asking when he picked up, because I couldn't even understand what I was saying myself. My voice was wavered and cracking in which a way that it seemed like nothing more than thin glass being jumped on and smashed to pieces. He kept telling me to breathe, like it was _easy_ with his calming voice and music once making my head ache from the volume began fading away. He told me to meet him as I scrambled to find the words to explain that this wasn't meant to happen, how it's never this bad and _I'm so sorry_ for everything that's happened and how I'm weak enough to be reduced to tears from _tough love_ and _a couple of bruises._

 

I knew by the next day I would be hating myself. I would feel like shit for crawling back on my hands and knees in hopes he could make me forget what was happening. But I knew I would eventually when my mind was clear and it was just a matter of time. But that night I didn't think about it as I crept out of the house with my parents yells echoing behind my back and my mothers feverish words like cold sweat running down the back of my neck. 

 

He grabbed my hand at the end of the street and didn't look at me when I cried. I didn't know where we were going and I couldn't ask for the words were clogging my throat to the point I couldn't push them out. I remember telling him I was _sorry_ , again and again like a broken record as he clutched my hand and told me in the softest voice I ever heard him use to shut up and breathe.

 

We ended up at a little house not even fifteen minutes away, his jacket around my shoulders since he cursed at me for leaving without my own. I _didn't_ ask where we were, I _hadn't_ spoken since we turned the corner that lead away from my street. I _didn't_ make a comment on how when we went inside he told me to stay quiet, or the fact there were pictures along the walls of a boy with big brown eyes and a toothy smile with a mother, a father and an older girl with long hair an big brown eyes with crinkles by the sides that matched his. 

 

I kept my thoughts to myself even when we ended up standing in the middle of a bedroom with dark blue walls behind layers of posters. His hand gripping the back of the jacket around my shoulders, muttering curses into my hair that I could barely hear about _undeserving people_ and life being _so damn unfair._ I never asked him to repeat any of it, even when he gripped the back of my neck and pressed his lips to my head while I wondered what it even meant. 

 

“I'm sorry.” Was all I heard beyond, _“you don't deserve this,”_ and, _“why is everything so fucked?”_

 

After a while, I think I was the one holding him. Arms around his shoulders and lips pressed to his hair, I began to realise that maybe those times I saw him cry weren't just false memories made from a hazy mind.

 

He kept saying _sorry_. Gripping onto the back of the jacket he loaned me and muttering incoherently against my shoulder. Each time he said it, I realised more and more he wasn't just talking about the fact my dad had a temper. 

 

_"I forgive you."_

 


	48. 4.2

When I woke up, sun slinking lazily through the window and casting pretty stripes of light along the foreign floor, I almost began panicking. 

 

It took a bit of time for me to remember where I was, to remember what happened the night before and why I was laying in a bed that I didn't recognise. Walls lined with posters now discoloured with their corners curling in, hoodies and worn in jeans littering the floor that through patches showed to be wood. It was _unfamiliar_ in every sense: sight, scent and even the feeling that clouded around like fog; I had no idea where I was for few moments. But when I did, I wanted to _slap_ myself. 

 

His arm was heavy around my stomach, leg over mine and laying on my arm he was a _dead weight_. I had to squint due to the sun light that slipped through black out curtains that made my head throb just so I could look at him. It was odd, as for once, he looked completely normal. Hair laying flat across his forehead, blonde streak glinting in the light with his lips parted - I'm almost positive there was drool on my shoulder, but he looked so peaceful I couldn't really find myself too mad. Within sleep, it was as if who he was on the outside faded away.

 

I can't remember how long I just lay there, wondering how this happened. I knew better than anyone my limits and he shoved at all of them to the point I'm almost positive I have none left, leaving me in a haze where I wasn't sure of right from wrong. I felt like some bad attempt at a female lead, always jumping from _yes_ to _no_. I wanted to get up, to leave and regret everything. But I didn't, and I knew I wouldn't even try. And maybe that was worse than being the _Bella Swan_ of my own life. 

 

After a while I somehow managed to get up. It felt too real. How when I managed to move away he just rolled over with a noise close to a grunt. The fact that I was wearing clothes I couldn't remember being given the night before as I riffled through jeans on the floor to get my phone. It was strange, real and there was something I couldn't place when I had to walk along wooden floorboards bare foot to make a call just to stop by the doorframe, trying to hold back a laugh at the pout on his lips as his arms wrapped around a pillow and body curled to fit around it. It was _innocence_ , sweet and simple, words I never thought I would have a chance to associate to a moment where he was involved. 

 

There were pictures _everywhere_. Looking around, it was almost like a real family lived there, but for some reason I didn't feel as though that were true. Along the halls pictures of a little boy and girl from sticking their tongues out with dirt on their faces and hair in plaits turned into teenagers standing side by side with their arms around each other and laughter in their eyes. I knew it was best not to pry, but standing in the hallway to try and summon the courage to call my mother it was easy to get distracted. 

 

Every picture was _happy_. Moving along, frame to frame as if telling the story of how two children grew up to become teenagers together. From _bikes rides_ down what looked to be a suburban neighbourhoods road to _pulling stupid faces_ for the camera in pyjamas while swimming in a sea of festive wrapping paper. It took me a while to notice. To look past the laughter, smiles and playful crossed eyes of a little boy and girl with tanned skin and brown eyes to see that they just _stopped_. I had to walk along, like images in an art gallery with pictures every year or maybe more - until they stopped. The final frame of ordinary dark wood of a boy no older than me I could hardly recognise for under his eyes were no dark rings to be found and his lips held a real smile and eyes a light I've rarely seen as he stood by a girl just a few inches shorter against a car, smiling with bags by their feet. And then there was _nothing_ and the question of why felt heavy and scary where it lay in my mind. 

 

"You're up early." 

 

His voice was thick and scratchy, full of sleep and slow like he had to really think about what he was saying.

 

"It's eight, on a weekday." I replied, casting a look over my shoulder to where he stood rubbing his eyes as he leaned against the banister just a few stairs up. He looked tired, half asleep and oddly _soft_. Long sleeved shirt balled up at the cuff to rub his eyes as he looked down at me. I almost smiled, but looked down before it could be caught, finally unlocking the phone in my hands to text my mother at last. "I do actually go to school you know.. well, normally."

 

"Hm, normally." I heard the creak of the last few steps before his comment before I felt his arms around my waist, nose pressed against my neck and lips against my shoulder reminding me of few weeks before when he's grab my hips but now softer and something - well, something else. "I don't think today fits with that, do you? Come on, sleep in a little; you can be functional later."

 

"I need to call my mum, tell her I didn't run off and get eaten by wolves - or bit by something poisonous." Despite my words I leant back against his chest and found myself locking the phone I only just turned on when his hand moved from my waist to grip onto mine. 

 

"You can do it later."

 

And I could. Because, in reality, it was obviously more preferable to let him take the phone from my hand, for his lips to press delicately against the crook of my neck with no intention beyond comfort and taking my mind off of the fact I didn't have sleeves to hide my unfortunate arms and the sweats I wore clung to my hips a little more than they may have done with his.

 

_"Let's go back to bed."_

 


	49. 4.3

There wasn't some kind of dramatic confrontation. There was no yelling, no tears shed with emotions running high and wild: I think we both had enough of that the night prior. I didn't see a point in making a _scene_ \- more, I was too afraid that he could so easily snap to hating me got calling out his actions. So, I decided against it, maybe in spite of my better judgement. 

 

Due to this, I wasn't even the one to mention it in the first place. 

 

"I'm sorry."

 

It was drifting closer to night, the sun close to setting as it stole away the light we had been basking in for far longer than I had realised. In that decrepit old park, with lonesome swing sets that lay unused and unloved was where we spent the better part of the day. We sat perilously atop the old jungle gym that had long since began falling apart, legs through the bars and arms folded on once useful rails. He spoke so suddenly, without reason it seemed, that I wondered if he had even said anything at all and it was only my mind playing tricks once again. 

 

"It's fine." I think I shrugged, even if I barely remember the action it was more than likely. Edging closer to something you should, feeling the barbs of the wire brushing skin and still they push: off handed is the only real response to have. 

 

"You shouldn't let yourself be pushed around so easy, take lead of your own life – shit – stop letting people do it for you.”

 

I wanted to be offended. I knew that was a normal response to someone insinuating that I was practically a _puppet_. But even if it hurt to realise, he was right. Like always, he was right and it was the most infuriating thing I've ever experienced in my life. 

 

I could only sigh, watching the side of his face as no matter how I wanted him too, he wouldn't turn to face me. "Why does it concern you what I do or don't do?"

 

"Because I cant keep pushing you around and try to convince myself you want this shit life too."

 

There was silence. Like the birds, the cars and even the rusting leaves knew not to disturb the moment. I didnt say anything, but i tried. I tried to find the words, tried to wrap my mind around his words instead of letting them surround me like a fog so dense I couldnt see a hand in front of my face much less his blank expression. 

 

"No one is ever really themselves once they get on something - are they?"

 

It was as if he was talking to himself as despite the question that past his lips hung between us, he didnt even pass a glance in my direction. 

 

"You become someone - something - different. More _extreme_ , to say the least. The worst part of yourself possible comes out to put on a show and wreak havoc on what youve struggled for with the best of yourself. But I guess its worth it sometimes."

 

"Is it?"

 

I wasnt sure if I really understood what he was talking about. It was like reading Shakespeare, almost understanding but never completely, just enough to get by and ride along to the next character interaction or monologue to dissect. 

 

He still didnt look to me. Staring straight ahead like the sun set could tell him the answers hes been searching for. 

 

"Maybe, maybe not." He faded off once again like bad connection. "Its just..."

 

"Not worth hurting people for?" When he finally looked at me, I couldnt understand the look in his eyes. It was sadness, but something else. Something strong like pain and maybe even something as deep as regret. 

 

"Its not something you can just stop, Michael. You know that, right?" And I noticed it then, the change. The shift in his tone, his guard like the change in the tide. The shine to his eyes from more than the setting suns light, the white of his knuckles gripping the bar and how he seemed to be there. "Because trying isnt always good enough. Sometimes people aren't _strong_ enough.”

 

I was only sixteen years old, and he was just nineteen. And I realised then, when I took his hand from the railing it clung to and let it grip mine instead, that our ages were never the point. Because at sixteen I felt so low I swore I tasted burning flesh from drowning in the earths core. And because he was nineteen years old and afraid of what he had become to try and escape who he was. 

 

I was just a kid; but I realised in that moment, when he clung to my hand like a life line the first time he let me see him cry: that so was he. 

 

" _We'll be strong enough."_

 


	50. 4.4

He was like a _flower_. Starting off as just a seed, growing and growing until cut off from the sunlight. He hid in the dark for long enough to let his petals _wilt_ , trying to create something worthy of living for from the water he was practically drowning in with nothing to balance it out. But then he tried, and he was in the light again. Blinds opened in a once dark lit room he began to flourish, colours bold and strong again: like he was revived. And it was beautiful.

 

 _He_ was beautiful. 

 

Though neither of us said what we were doing, I think we both just knew. Like an unspoken agreement, though in hindsight we agreed to something vocally. Before him, I always craved _answers_ , even with him I did for the most part - but sometimes, you don't need to know something word for word. All you need is to go along with it with an open mind and polish the hope you let coat in dust. 

 

We both started changing. For one, I started actually talking to Luke. Pitching in with conversations instead of leaving them one sided, I started becoming a friend that I wanted him to be happy to have. Even when he rambled about the boy two years above that stole his heart I didn't zone out. And it felt good. 

 

But, I think the best part was watching him. 

 

It was bad at the start. With fidgeting hands as September days started becoming longer, I thought he would crack. But when his fingers drummed on his thighs in the middle of a sentence at ten thirty pm, so I'd grab his hand and remind him of better things. But his eyes were _feral_ and I was scared for a while they may be a sign that he'll just go mad. 

 

But he didn't, and it was amazing. 

 

"Luke? Really, he's the best you could have thought of?" His tone was teasing, lips quirked in that knowing way that made me want to hit him and kiss those very lips at the same time. 

 

I threw a pillow at his head instead. 

 

"What was I supposed to tell them?" I asked as he laughed, tossing aside the pillow I threw until it was on the floor with the others and piles of clothes long since hoping to be moved. 

 

"That you're at a friends?" He offered, causing me to groan. 

 

"But I don't have any other friends! I'm a nerd with pink hair – and she still thinks Luke is made up sometimes!"

 

He just laughed. Hard and _real_ , almost choking due to the cigarette between his lips he had to pull away with a splutter of smoke. I didn't know what was so funny about it at the time, though in hindsight I see it now. But I didn't care in that moment because he had that grin that looked like it _hurt_ , hand curled on his bare chest as he leaned against the head board of the bed id come to find more comfortable than my own.  

 

There were text books flipped open, pages scattered and pens rolling around the bed. It started to become something of a thing for me to escape home for a few hours in the week and camp out in his own. I never asked about the pictures, nor why his parents were never around, it wasn't from fear, it just never really came up. We'd sit in the room I found to be his own, I'd ramble about nothing while he's smile and act like it mattered as he lit cigarette's he rolled himself because he simply insisted they just felt ' _better_ '.

 

“You've been friends with him for – how long? - like two years, right? Yet your mum still doesn't think he's real?” His question may have been rhetorical but I still nodded in response as he just smiled from where he sat, eyes crinkled by the sides and brown eyes shining like the setting sun he sat with his back to was glinting off them itself. “My mum has never met you yet believes me when I say you exist.”

 

I noticed the end of what he was saying more than the rest. Still grabbing papers that littered the mattress, I wondered if he meant that as it sounded. But I tossed that idea aside upon realising that I shouldn't think too far into things like that. So instead I just nodded, and I knew my smile was more than likely obvious, but neither of us said a word on it, and that was okay.

 

“I'm sure your mum is lovely, tell her thanks for believing that I exist.”

 

“You can tell her yourself sometime, I'm sure she wouldn't mind.”

 

We skirt around things, implying yet never outwardly saying. But when I looked up at him and saw the smile on his lips rather than the cigarette that dangled between his fingers, I realised that wasn't a bad way of going about things. Probably because sometimes, it's better to go into something without expectation. That way, they can only meet them, or be a pleasant surprise.

 

And lately, he's been the latter.

 

“ _Will do.”_

 


	51. 4.5

“Are you okay? Because, you seem.. _happy_.”

 

When we broke into October, when the seasons started changing again and when the colour of my hair started to fade: things started _changing_ in a way I was happy to see. I stopped being afraid to come back into school after those weeks I was somewhere else, gossip stopped, teachers smiled again and Luke sat with me under the trees at the back of the school where he and the boy two years above ate lunch those days I was gone. It was like spring was bringing something back, and it wasn't just the flowers that began cropping up that were suddenly alive again.

 

I shrugged my shoulders at Luke's question, and I was smiling without really helping it. “I am happy, at least – I feel happier.”

 

He gave me a confused look. That perplexed, puppy dog expression with his head tilted and eyebrows furrowed almost comically. But I just kept on smiling, and I think that confused him even more. “Luke,” I told him, unable to help from laughing which strangely, I had been doing a lot lately. “It's not that weird.”

 

“Sorry, it's just...” He trailed off, voice dropping a little lower despite the fact as we walked through crowded halls I doubted anyone would care to hear what we had to say. “I've known you two years and you've never been this happy.”

 

“I never had a real reason to be before now.”

 

“Okay.. Then, what's the reason?”

 

By now, I would have turned the other way. I would have made some excuse that I needed to get something from my locker to avoid walking out of school with him, to avoid him seeing the nineteen year old that leaned against the front gate with a cigarette between his lips waiting for the last bell. But I didn't, because I was happy. And, at that point, I realised that I shouldn't hide the reason for that; he was my friend, and he should know why.

 

“Remember when we talked back in December, right before the end of school, after we worked on our song in the music room after school?” Looking back to the blond by my side, I could tell from the look on his face he was trying to figure out what the hell I was talking about.

 

The chatter in the halls was loud, deafening almost as we pushed through the crowd to leave the building. The closer we got to the doors, the more it seemed to be dawning on him just what we were talking about.

 

“Michael, please tell me you're not-.”

 

I kept my head down as we rushed through the doors, Luke's terse words chasing after me like birds to peck at my skin. “He's not a bad guy, Luke.” I told him, rushing my words in a fluster in vain hope I could get them out quick enough before he could leap to some conclusion. “He's trying now, I know you care about Ashton and I know what happened with them sucked but-.”

 

“But what, Michael? He's 'changed' now, right?”

 

At his words I couldn't help the spike of anger they brought. But my jaw just tensed as we stood in the courtyard and I knew I couldn't just run from this. “He is, Luke.” I continued, a little softer than he when it came to my tone. “People do shitty things, but it doesn't make them a shitty person. He's trying, and if you took time to actually remember he's a real person too – you'd realise he's not all bad.”

 

“You know Ashton told me, right? About the shit that he does, that he did with him and you?” His words were like an _accusation_ , chilling and threatening. Though I told myself he was just worried about me, I couldn't help but wonder what was making him so worried. He just stood there, practically glaring at me with those _oh so fucking bright_ blue eyes, like he had something to judge – like the decisions I was making had anything to do with him as people weaved in and out, passing us by and carrying on their merry way.

 

“Don't get mad, Luke, there's no use in it. I'm happy, isn't that enough?” I challenged, only to watch as he became wordless, jaw tight. “You're happy with Ashton, can't I be happy with Calum?”

 

“You know that's different, Michael. He's just using you and-.”

 

“And you're in love with someone out of reach. Do you see me trying to convince you that your feelings aren't valid? Trying to keep you away from him because I know you'll get hurt?”

 

Now it was my jaw that was set, waiting for some kind of answer as to why he wanted to pass some kind of judgement on me and the boy I could see from the corner of my eye. He was just standing there by the gate, but the cigarette that should have been between his lips was pinched between his fingers as he stood staring like he was trying to read our lips and understand why my skin more than likely looked as ashen as the sixteen years old before me.

 

“You've got to pick your poison, Luke.” With a sigh I looked back to the blue eyed boy before me, jaw tight and knuckles white where he gripped the binder to his chest. “And I've picked him.”

 

But I just stepped back, because he seemed to only just realise that we both had demons to fight that we loved too much to kill.

 

“ _I'll see you tomorrow.”_

 


	52. 4.6

It was the end of September when I saw Jack and Alex again. 

 

I had never seen them outside before, the realisation sounded strange but it was true. It was like it hit me how _real_ they were. That during that month I hadn't conjured them up in my hazy mind, made up memories and fake scenarios that we were caught in. For a while I just stared at them, wondering if I was seeing things. 

 

It was a Saturday, I should have been studying. I should have been sitting with my back to the chest of the nineteen year old that was slowly but surely taking control of my life in the best way, rambling about atoms while he just nodded along like he gave a damn. But instead I found myself being pulled away by the boy I knew as my best friend, though our relationship was rocky, I loved him too much to say no.

 

I'm not sure how Luke convinced me to go out, but I'm almost sure it involved his _oh so bright_ blue eyes batting their lashes and a puppy dog pout. It'll be fun, he promised, I just want you two to hang out. The boy from two years above that months ago seemed untouchable just stood there with that _awkward cute_ smile that Luke always wore, and I wondered if (' _platonically_ ') sharing saliva was somehow making them share personalities. 

 

It turns out Luke had been planning this for a while, to steal us away for a day and somehow make us the best of friends within a day. Pool table set up again, xBox waiting to be played and iPod docked with actual music playing, he basically decked out his basement to make it a party for three. No matter how much I didn't feel comfortable being there, I realised how much this meant and knew I had to at least try. 

 

So I did. 

 

We made bets as we played pool, accidentally chipping the balls overside and making one too many jokes on how Luke 'must be pretty shit with balls if they're running away' from him. We shoved at each other when we got too into FIFA and shoved Ashton off the sofa when he complained it was a shit game. We lay around tossing skittles into one another's mouths while Good Charlotte played in the background. 

 

And honestly, it was _fun_. 

 

The only reason we even left the basement was because Luke's mum needed something. He complained for a little as the boy two years above and I sniggered when his mum told him to 'grow up and go outside'. When he came back with pouted lips and a twenty dollar bill we just laughed as he blushed and told us to get off our asses. 

 

I saw them in the store. Luke was at the till and Ashton flipping through magazines as I gave a running commentary over his shoulder of the awkward adventure of Luke trying to explain how he was actually sixteen when asked his age for the lotto ticket his mum wanted. It as the _laughter_ that tipped me off.  Bubbly and loud, not just as _dazed_ but I knew it all the same. 

 

I remember making some excuse as I went around the isle to follow the sound. They stood between cans of dog food and cat toys, tossing popcorn into one another's mouths, not even noticing me. Jack was actually smiling, wide mouth and toothy as he laughed when Alex jumped to catch the popcorn heading for his face. For a moment I thought to move, act like I never saw a thing. But then his smiled went smaller, and his arm lowered. 

 

"Hey, pet."

 

The nick name felt strange to hear now. But I just nodded as Alex turned, looking at me with a smile that seemed real. For a second I thought that'd be it but he grinned, a little flick of his wrist as he said _hello_ and I heard my friends call. 

 

But I ignored it.

 

“Hey.”

 

“How's you, pet? Little less pink I see.” Alex wasn't stoned, but he still acted the same. He had that quirky smile, those bright eyes and jittery feel that made me wonder if it was just by habit or something he picked up along the way with pretty pills and sour shots.

 

“Uh, I'm good. Yeah, pretty good. How are you two?”

 

“We're good.”

 

“Great.”

 

It felt tense, awkward and like we were _strangers_. Then again, we probably were. Nights we spent together were really just nights of me gate crashing and things I don't remember anymore. Somewhere from behind, I heard the call of Luke's voice once again, reminding me that not only I needed to hurry up, but it may not be best if Ashton catches sight of these old friends.

 

“I- I, uh, I better go.” I said, awkward and small as they just nodded when I raised a hand, Alex coping my action as Jack just watched from his side.

 

I almost made it around the corner, almost.

 

“Check with Cal about Halloween for us, yeah? He hasn't got back to us on it. Be shame if he wasn't there.”

 

I wanted to turn around, to ask what he was talking about. But I just nodded, and wondered what I missing out on.

 

“ _Of course.”_

 


	53. 4.7

_Pink hair_ and a _blond streak._

 

With characters in movies, books, plays, and tv – they all have something that's uniquely _them_. Other's may have it, but when you see it, you think of them. Such as how you cannot look at a boy with a backwards red baseball cap and not think of TJ from Recess, or Horatio's sunglasses from CSI Miami. People and characters always have one specific thing to be known for. And I realised with his arms around my waist, chin my shoulder while looking at bottles of bright dye and bleach, that _this_ was _ours_.

 

“I can't believe I'm trusting you with my hair sober.”

 

Calum just laughed, that _pretty_ _sound_ that I slowly but surely began to get used to. Sitting with my back to the bathtub, across from where he sat with his own to the wall, I could only smile. It was a sudden thing, random even when he decided to dye my hair again. It was as if I didn't have a choice in the matter when he dragged me out at four thirty on a Sunday afternoon, bought a box dye and kissed his mother on the cheek when he pulled me inside.

 

(Joy Hood was never really around, her perfume may linger and her jacket may be found at the foot of the stairs, but on few occasions did I ever see the woman for my very own eyes before today.)

 

“You're going to look fine, I did it once, I can do it again.” He reassured me, though I just kicked his foot from where I sat anyways.

 

“So, where's your mum today then?”

 

It was only a week or so before then, if I remember right, that he told me about his family. He told me they moved just a couple years before, his mother and father newly divorced and he newly an only child. I remember his voice went _thicker_ when he skirted around the topic of the girl smiling in photograph frames along the hallway. He never said what _happened_ , but he explained the _fallout_. How his parents began to let their relationship crumble, how he began to lose faith and where that lead him. I remember him crying, and I remember how human he suddenly seemed when I told him that _life does terrible things_ and he looked at me with that knowing gaze, _guard down._

 

“Work probably, not sure which one though.” Though his shoulders shrugged, I didn't forget how he seemed so proud of the woman he was afraid he has disappointed when explaining her working odd jobs on top of one another to keep them living like they used to.

 

I just nodded, the faint sound of music playing in the other room the only thing filling the silence as we waited.

 

“I saw Jack and Alex the other day.” I mentioned after a moment, looking away from the cracks in the wall that tried to be concealed by paint that only sept into the gaps. “We got to talking, not for long; but still.”

 

He was silent for a moment, and part of me wondered if he knew where this conversation was going. “Really?” He said instead, sounding offhanded, something I hadn't heard from him in a while. “What did you guys talk about?”

 

I just shrugged, knees pulled up to my chest with hands clasped around them. “Nothing really, just casual stuff. And, uh, Jack wanted me to remind you about some party. Said it would be a shame if you weren't there.”

 

“I see.”

 

There was a moment of silence, soft sounds of heavy guitar slipping through the crack under the door. I almost thought we'd sit there in silence until the timer on his phone went off. And maybe I wanted us to. But, it felt too much like a step _back_. Awkward pauses, heavy topics untouched and things that need to be said not even skirted by.

 

“Are you thinking about going?” I asked, suddenly, out right as I looked to where he sat with a thoughtful expression, fiddling with the strands loose on the hem of the worn in shirt he wore.

 

“Maybe, maybe not. I don't know. It'd be nice seeing them, but..” He trailed off a little, still picking at the little hanging strands. “you know.”

 

“You can just go to be with them, there's no need to get into shit again.” Despite what I said, I knew it wouldn't be so easy. That no one can just turn their head and say no. And I think he knew that too, maybe a little too well as he looked up at me, eyebrows furrowed with thoughtful eyes that I wanted to question before I figured out why.

 

“Would you come with me?”

 

I didn't sit and think about how things have changed. How he looked at me worried, which months ago was an emotion I didn't think he possessed. I just nodded my head, remembering back to the day sitting on the jungle gym hand in hand, promising that even though he isn't strong alone, we can be together as the alarm on his phone went off, and the smile that's been appearing more and more of late came again.

 

“ _Come on, shower time.”_

 


	54. 4.8

"Do you think you can love with someone – like, be in love – if you haven't known them long?"

 

His breathing beside my ear was _constant_. Simple, soft, in and out. In and out. Unfailing, without a hitch or a missing beat within its rhythm.  In and out. _In_ and _out_. It's was comforting.

 

"Maybe, maybe not. Just depends." His reply was like everything he said. Forever on the edge, standing on the line between every yes and no question keeping it as an either or. It was _infuriating_ , but it was _him_.

 

"That's not a very helpful answer, you know." I told him dryly, turning my head to the side to face him.

 

His eyes were closed, long lashes hiding the deep circles that clung under them. His lips were pulled to the side, that signature little smirk that used to scare me now was nothing more than a flash of _mischief_ I knew to be _benevolent_.

 

"Is this your way of confessing your undying love for me?" He asked, teasingly, as it wasn't really a question at all. His head turned to the side, one eye peeked open with crinkles by sides as his smirk grew to a smile.

 

"Oh stop being so egotistical." I couldn't withhold a roll of my eyes, but his laugh made me smile. It sounded real again. Like _bells_ and _bass_ and _music_ that shouldn't work but crashes together so naturally like waves to the shore when the tide draws in.

  
  


"Fine, fine you don't have to admit it now - because we both know you do - but what are you talking about then?"

 

I paused, shoulders shrugged before looking up to the sky again. Clouds floating, birds flying, white trails tailing behind airplanes right above our heads. It seemed like everything was flying, moving, defying the gravity that kept me to the ground. They seemed so _free_.

 

"Luke thinks he's in love. I think he's just high off of hormones and is going to break his own heart pretty soon."

 

Calum was silent, like he wasn't even there. But I knew he was watching. Staring at the side of my face as if his eyes could bore holes into the side of my skull for him to find out where this tangent came from. I didn't need to look at him to know it was what he was doing. I don't even think he noticed half the time. It was something he did. Something _little_ , something _memorable_.

 

"Since when were you a pessimist?" He asked after a few moments, birds chirping as I noticed the sky had that tinge of pink that was mixing in with its clear blue.

 

"I'm not a pessimist." I replied with a shrug. "Just realistic."

 

"Then you're a pessimistic realist." Came his huff of a reply, still unused to being challenged.

 

I didn't say anything, I just watched at the view of the sky so blue and clouds drifting by was replaced by his face.

 

He was smiling, that kind of smile he only has on his _good_ _days_. Where the lines on his forehead and between his eyes practically don't exist as his eyes twinkle like they used to in the photos he still had from years before. It's that look he must have had years ago, when his sister would make a _joke_ or when his parents told him they were _proud_. It was real, with bright eyes and crinkles beside them. He leaned down, nose nudged against mine instead of saying anything. I could guess what he wanted to say, but I didn't give him time to say anything anyway.

 

"You seem happy." I told him, because even if he looked upside down to me he would never frown as wide as he smiled. But he just shrugged his shoulders instead of saying anything, lips grazing my temple before he was gone again. Rolled to the side as the sun became a dull comparison to the view only moments prior I had the luck of seeing.

 

For a few moments we just lay there, staring up at the clouds in silence. I didn't say a word when I felt his fingers lace through mine, not when I heard the crunch of grass as his head turned to mine.

 

But I smiled when his lips brushed against my ear, and I didn't even notice that I did it until it started to hurt.

 

_"You make me happy."_

 


	55. 4.9

Jack and Alex picked us up that night. All the memories I have from that time are so blurry now, but this one – _that night_ , it suck with me, not all of it, but enough. Just enough to let it haunt me.

 

I remember sitting in the back of the car, hands laced together listening to old songs playing through the radio. We made a point not to give a damn, neither of us in costume as when we talked about it only a few days prior, we both realised we didn't see a point in it. It turns out the party was out of town, though not far, if you just travelled along the high way you'd be there soon enough. I tried not to notice how his hand gripped mine a little too _tight_ , or the fact that despite that he was acting like he was completely fine.

 

The party was in some house, large and white it was picturesque. With teenagers and young adults laughing, cups of drink now empty rolling while people tread over them carelessly. The music was loud but _vague_ , and though you could feel the _vibrations_ of the bass throughout your body from the ground beneath your very feet, the song nor its singer could be placed.

 

From the moment we went in, something felt off. There were too many people, there was too much laughter, there were too many cups being passed around from hand to hand and people in corners passing more than a drink. It was a _step back_ , and I didn't realise that until we were sitting with his old friends again and the faceless that tempted him away weeks ago with the promise of something to make him feel alive acted like nothing had changed.

 

The men I barely knew called me _pet_ again. They fiddled with my hair as sat by his side, wondering if tonight would end up in a way we both knew would send him hurtling back to square one. His hand stayed in mine, clutched tight between us as people laughed and joints were lit, smoke drifting above our heads and tempting a high that was hard to resist from ground level.

 

It felt too much like that party months ago now, where he grabbed me a little too hard, and I was a little too out of it to notice at first. But unlike that night, Jack and Alex were nowhere to be found after a while and all that was left were the men that made my skin crawl and the boy by my side that was tempted by the thrill of it all.

 

I don't remember who it was that leaned across the coffee table, with elbows on their thighs with pretty little blunt rolled between his fingers, and held out over the table. I don't remember who it was that asked if we wanted one, or anything else for that matter with a hazy kind of grin that seemed _malevolent_ in the light that flickered from a the lighter near by. But I remember the look in the eyes of the boy that sat by my side. That wild, _feral_ look of an animal corner. The _panic_ and the _want_ rolling up into one strong, intoxicating feeling that stifled everything else until it would choke you as it clogged your throat with its smoke.

 

He gripped my hand so tight I swore it felt like my bones would _shatter_. When he said _no_ , the man before him just tilted his head to the side and everything was quiet for a second. I couldn't remember his words, not clearly at least, though I know now what they meant. Now I know that when he quirked an eyebrow and asked _why_ , he knew the answer. And Calum just shook his head, he knew that he wouldn't let that be the end of it.

 

Others were quiet. The ones that sat around us with dark eyes and shaky hands, they looked _dead_ as they stared and I felt like an animal on display on the other side of a cage. It felt twisted, strange and _wrong_. Making my stomach tie in knots and my heart beat irregularly in my chest when he tempted him again, asking _why do things have to change_ – or has he forgotten everything now he had something _new_ to take his mind off of it?

 

There was laughter. It wasn't light and sweet like his was when we lay over crumbled papers and messy bedsheets, smiling against lips and murmuring things that made no sense. It was dark, malevolent and full of something cruel like _bitter truth_. I remember how he didn't say a word when he pulled me to my feet, gripping my hand so hard it hurt. I remember feeling small, feeling _childlike_ as he went to lead me away.

 

But I also remember that mans call from behind, the cackle of laughter and the question lingering in the air of, “blood stains pretty bad, doesn't it? Must have taken a pretty strong hit to wash that out.”

 

And in that moment, _nothing_ made sense.

 

“ _Fuck you.”_

 


	56. 5.0

There are things you forget by _choice._ Others you forget because you are forced by your own body, your own mind, for your own good.

 

Mine was not quite so _considerate_.

 

I remember how we walked in the street, hand in hand, not saying a word. I remember the still of the night for twelve am, dark streets and lampposts the only source of light from above. I remember how he stared ahead, blank, devoid of any emotion as if he was once again just another painting that didn't quite end up right. But I wish I didn't. I wish I could say I remembered nothing, but I'm not quite so fortunate.

 

I watched the path that we walked along. Noticed the bits of gum and the shards of glass on the ground when we travelled under street lights. We walked along the quiet highway, devoid of any life. It was a long way home, and within the silence it felt even worse. But I didn't say anything, not for sometime, for fear of saying the wrong thing and making him _run_.

 

“You never spoke to me, not once. Not when you watched me from under that damn tree, not when I walked along the middle of the road, not ever.”

 

His voice was soft, slow and low though his words held something it wasn't malice or anger. It was like he was stating _facts_ , and he was. I never replied, but let him continue as I ran my thumb along his knuckles and wondered if they had always been _just so rough._

 

“Ashton was the one that told me who you were. I asked him one day, saw you walking with your head down when we were by the gates. Said he thought it was _Michael_ , shrugged his shoulders like it didn't matter and told me most kids thought you were _weird_. He said he felt sorry for you, because you were always _so alone_ even with someone by your side.”

 

There was a time I remember wanting to know how he knew me, but I didn't think he would ever say. Nor did I think he would ever really have a reason. I'm not sure even now what it meant for him to say that – why, so out of character he decided to let me in enough to tell me why. Part of me longed to know why he noticed me, the other, _now_ , wishes he had never said a word on it. I didn't say anything, not even when our feet hit the road to cross, or even when he stopped me, just out of reach between to lampposts in the centre of the street.

 

"Dance with me."  
  
When he took my hands, I looked at him and I didn't expect what I saw. Because he was smiling, and I didn't know why.

 

I _don't_ know why.  
  
"I don't dance." I tried to tell him, fingers laced together as I made to pull away.  
  
But he just laughed, and it hit me how _alive_ he seemed. His head tilted back, lips forming a smile so wide it made me wonder if I was missing out on the punchline as he moved an arm to circle my waist.   
  
When I said I didn't dance, I meant it. Because I'm _uncoordinated_ and _awkward_ with two left feet despite the fact I can carry a rhythm my body simply isn't made for dancing to a beat. But he smiled at me and told me it's okay, ' _I don't either,_ ' and the light in his eyes made me ignore the taste of smoke that tinged the air with every word past his lips.  
  
There was no music playing, but I couldn't find it within me to care. Because, for once he was _here_ instead of _there_. There wasn't a sea of tarmac that neither of us dared cross, and he wasn't stuck within himself with cloudy eyes and short words for replies.  
  
So, we _danced_.  
  
His arm around my waist, my own around his neck, hands clasped tight between our chests as we swayed in the street lights because he wanted to _dance_ and I'd give him the _world_ if he asked.

 

His head rested against mine, and when he spoke, his breath hit my lips and I forgot how cold it was without the jacket I forgot to pick up from the car. “Never love someone with everything you have,” he had told me, “it will kill you in the end.”

 

He didn't sound sad. In fact, part of me swore he had smiled when he spoke. I couldn't understand it – but at the same time, I knew _exactly_ how he felt.

 

“I've picked my poison.”

 

I remember looking at him, staring him in the eyes that had began to gain a light again, that glittered over the past few weeks and stopped being as dead as I always thought they were. I remember the sad smile on his lips that made my chest ache as I gripped his hand tighter, the crunch of gravel and calls of party goers from behind ruined the silence. I remember wondering why he said that, but I never asked.

 

“And it's you.”

 

I didn't know then how ironic those words would end up being. Because I didn't know then that when he kissed me, that he wouldn't stand in the middle of the road at one am ever again on a November night and kiss me with everything he had. Because I didn't know what I know now.

 

Because in those few seconds that his lips were pressed to mine, I wish I could say that they lasted a life time. I wish that with one kiss to the lips, with my hands gripping so gently onto his shirt that picked up with the wind, that we were _lost in time_. I wish that kiss made us slip into another world, one where it was just us. One where no one else mattered, no on else existed outside of that little bubble, that little world that existed sometime between twelve and one am, the world where we could dance in the street light and all that mattered was the fact his lips fit with mine like puzzle pieces – smooth and gentle, _different_ and _right_.

 

But we didn't.

 

Because the world _continued_ , time went on and I didn't know that moments later his hands would push against my chest until I stumbled back and fell like he did three years ago. And I didn't know that I would fall out of harms way on the same road he did that cut through the heart of the country that had already stopped beating. Because I didn't know that night I would hear the _crack of bones_ like I thought he would the night he said _goodbye_.

 

Because that night, I didn't know the only sound to pierce the silence would be that of a useless ambulance siren.

 


	57. ( ♡ )

“ _ **Enso.”**_

 


	58. 5.1

Once upon a time, I met a boy who would smoke more than he'd weigh. His fingers were careless as they curled around one of the cigarettes that I had never seen him without, just as they were careless when they curled around my heart. When we met he was everything I was not, he was _wild_ and _free_ , but caged by _memories_. I was timid and confined, but I had no secrets to hide.

 

When I was sixteen years old, I fell in love with a boy who didn't know how to love without suffering through loss. I was _white_ when we met, pure and clear bar the scuff marks around my mind. He was _black_ , dark and tainted, like he had forgotten what it was like to be light. He tainted me, took me in his arms and I faded to _grey_. He loved me, though he didn't understand the word.

 

But the boy I loved, who loved me with every kiss stolen in the middle of the street, with every brush of his fingertips against my skin with tired eyes and with every word whispered the nights when we ran from the world and got lost within love, didn't stay. Because the boy that I loved lost who he loved at sixteen years old to a car in the middle of the road that he danced in because he was too alive, too free and too wild to care about the _consequences_ and the girl that he pulled into that sea of tarmac that laughed and called him an idiot. Because the boy that I loved pushed me out of the way like he had been three years before.

 

Because this was never my story: it was _his_.

 

And now I see why. Because now, I smoke more than I weigh. Now my fingers are careless as they curl around one of the cigarettes that I am never seen without; yet I can never part with them despite how I seem not to care. My eyes are dark, they are deep but they are dead now too, leading to nothing at all. And there is a boy that watches me from the corner of his eyes, and perhaps he, just as I did, notices how I never look his way. My skin is sickly pale, and it means nothing to me that I can see my bones. And maybe one day, I'll look the way of the boy that watches me and tell him how I want to die.

 

Because that boy is who I used to be, and in turn, perhaps one day he will become what I have: nothing more than the shadow of the one they once loved so much, it poisoned them in the end.

 


	59. + reasons, enso and more

First thing's first, I feel like I should explain why I started writing this fic in the first place. It was sometime back in early February and it was a shitty night. I didn't sit down to think of an idea, I was just jaded and laying in bed. It happens like that sometimes, blanking out for a while, but that night I just stared at the candle I had lit in the darkness and just started thinking.

 

Before I knew it the line of, “ _once upon a time I met a boy who smoked more than he weighed_ ” came to mind, and that was it. I grabbed my phone immediately upon that one line, and started writing it. That night I came up with what we now know to be the prologue of ' _Pretty Chapped Lips_ '. The idea itself started building overtime as for the month of February I started writing it without really knowing what 'it' was.

 

This fic was never meant to be good, and in my eyes it isn't really. It was an experiment when it came to writing as I've never written in this style before. The use of italics, the short chapters, the 'dreamstate' of it all. I went out on a limb, and when it comes to the story, I'm happy. Because I know I could never have written this story line if it hadn't been in this style.

 

As for the plot, it wasn't even Michael's story. I realised that roughly half way though writing, the end in mind I realised that this story was more an outside look at Calum's life, even though it is never really explained.

 

Some of you may have gathered what happened to Mali-Koa, and in turn, what happened to Calum to make him this way. If not, it may hit you at some point. I always knew I wanted that to be Calum's story, and it just fit so perfectly when it came to the end. It wasn't just of random I killed him, I didn't run out of ideas, it was my idea from the very beginning. I made it happen because there are two main things of this story I want you to take away;

 

One, life isn't a fairy tale, and it tends to be hallowing to realise in the case such as Calums, when you're picking yourself up again, you'll get knocked down.

 

Two, the full circle effect. At the end I said how Michael had become Calum, when in actuality, he was him in a sense from beginning to end. Starting off as just a sixteen year old, getting roped into bad habits before watching the person he loved the most come to an end.

 

If you have ever read the book, 'The Peculiar Life of a Lonely Postman' you'll understand the use of the quote 'enso' before the final chapter. It came to me one day mid July when this whole thing pieced together for me. If not, don't worry, some things may be better left unsaid until you figure it out yourself.

 

If you like listening to characters feelings – or just new music, you may like the two playlists I have made for this fic. One is Michael's, one is Calum's and they can both be found on my 8tracks (@starlightdarknights) if however you hate 8tracks or something else, here's the songs they contain.

 

Michael's Playlist – 'He makes me feel alive.'

translanticism – death cab for cutie

sleepy towns and cemeteries – nicole dollanganger

ghosts can't love – hotel books

meet me at the equinox – death cab for cutie

take me to church – hozier

two weeks – fka twigs

pressure – milk and bone

heart shaped box – lana del rey cover

dog teeth – nicole dollanganger

you wanted to look for help, I wanted to sit and be rescued – flatsound

ghosts – nicole dollanganger

old money – lana del rey

you said okay – flatsound

flowers of flesh and blood – nicole dollanganger

goner – twenty one pilots

you be the anchor that keeps my feet on the ground – mayday parade

 

Calum's Playlist – 'You taste like cotton candy.'

hurricane – halsey

requiem for blue jeans – bastille

seven nation army remix – glitch mob

alligator blood – nicole dollanganger

party girl – chinawoman

laura – bat for lashes

angels of porn – nicole dollanganger

how to never stop being sad – dandelion hands

I exist I exist I exist – flatsound

I still think about who I was last summer – old grey

sleep patterns – merchant ships

all I want to do is get high with u in my room – dandelion hands

deadthbeds – bring me the horizon

when you cant sleep at nice – of mice and men

in the absences of everything, I promise to keep you warm – flatsound

lungs - hotel books

 

(calum's is my favourite)

 

Anyways, on a different note, I won't be uploading anything new until after Christmas. Maybe some of you want to read more of my writing, if so, fantastic, I promise I have a lot in store. But, I'm going to take the next few weeks to study for exams while trying to write so when my exams do come around I can upload on a regular schedule instead of making you all wait for weeks. For the time being I have what is to be my next fic sitting on my profile called 'The Relativity of Time' it's about cake the ship, the devil and fear of insanity - so add that to your library's if it interests you. But yeah, I may post an update here when I do start uploading again so if you archive this you'll be notified. Or you can follow me if you want, message me, whatever suits you.

 

But, that's it. This is the end. If you have any questions feel free to comment them here and I will be answering them, or like I already said you can just message me. I want to let out a very special thank you to Jay who without, this probably wouldn't exist. So, thank you to everyone for joining me on the journey of Michael and Calum, and, for the very last time, I love you and thank you for reading.

 

-rachel x

 


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